The Day After
by Dark Industries
Summary: A serial murderer known as The Vampire is loose in Station Square. Its blood-drained victims seem to be part of a complex pattern: one which suggests that this monster may be closer than Tails or Amy or even Sonic ever imagined. Sequel to The Final Step.
1. The beginning

.

**FOREWORD**

Your life is ruined. You go to bed every night knowing that any one of you or your friends could be next. You know that if you had just made a simple alternative decision at that crucial, yet so seemingly harmless moment in time, things could have been so much different. You go to bed scared, alone, and cold. Sweat crawls across your brow as you try to rock yourself to sleep.   
  


You want someone to hold. To love. To laugh with you, lie with you, to fall asleep next to you.   
But you don't have it. And you likely never will.   
  
This is what _TDA_ is all about. Ruin and redemption. We all know the feeling, even if only mildly. I aim to portray this feeling. I hope it works.   
  
I'd like to thank a whole bunch of people that can't all be named at this point, the readers, my co-authors, and all of that kind of crap. This one is for you, guys.

**David Macintyre.******

Type "_forward" into the fanfiction.net dictionary and you get something along the lines of "__the van; the front."__ Type it correctly as "__foreword" and something like "__a preface" or "a__ short introductory essay preceding the text of a book"__ pops up. No joke. And yet it still doesn't help me in writing something to "__foreword" what I have learned, experienced, and bitched about during the process of writing TDA. I guess I should say something like "Steve was really cool about deadlines and the only one who followed them," or "Sex with Macintyre is only good when drunk or high," or something else that's really stupid. The truth is, I'm speechless. I can't think of a single phrase that can accurately describe what I have gone through.  Jeeves doesn't help me either; he just babbles on about some guy named Schwartz. Google just plugs a magazine. And I'm not even touching MSN or Lycos. _

All others aside, the only thing I can think of is: "_Thank you. Thank you, Macintyre, for giving me the opportunity to attempt to realize your grand vision. Thank you, Zacharus, for teaching me things about literature and writing that I had no prior knowledge of. Thank you, both of you, for not being too hard on me whenever I screwed something up. Thank you, faithful supporters, for you are appreciated greatly, possibly more than the actual work itself. Thank you."_

Yes, that will do nicely.          

**Sean Catlett.**

It would be so dull and unoriginal of me (though I'm tempted) to copy Sean's brilliant idea and go on and on about how little I have to say at this point.  Then again, does any author, really?  Makes you wonder if every Foreword you've ever read was the author pulling something out of his/her ass just to make the book appear more complete.

Anyway, what I will say is this: _The Day After_, successor to Macintyre's looming _The Final Step_, exceeded my very high expectations and then some.  

Yes, indeed, some of this is due to that nasty phrase called "author bias," but my pride in this work isn't even a measure of the actual _quality _of it.  No, this work is important to me because it was a learning experience—a test for the limits of teamwork and friendship and how to combine the two without completely fucking up one or the other.  Well, we're finally here.  Since the project officially began (June 2002), we've become such close friends that I cannot imagine what it would be like to _not _know Macintyre or Catlett, to collaborate ideas and critique each other's work and form a solid, unique _team_.  In that context, _TDA _is an especially massive triumph… and thus a permanent milestone in not only my fanfiction portfolio, but within my fondest memories.

This is my final work of Sonic fanfiction EVER, as the readers of this piece may or may not know.  And do you know something?  I wouldn't have it any other way.  

**Stephen Zacharus.**

**David Macintyre**

**Sean Catlett**

**Stephen Zacharus**

**THE DAY AFTER**

**1. The beginning. **

[AMY, Sean Catlett]

"Is something wrong?"

"Don't stop. Keep going . . . . . ."

The way Sandra's tongue feels right now is like a giant red Popsicle, not melting in heat and somehow 98 degrees. On my back I can't see how big it is, but I know it must be pretty fucking long to feel like it's licking the inside of the belly button. 

Normally, right now I'd be thrashing my arms around, with a giant pillow over my face to muffle the noises, but instead I'm as still as a dead fish, pun intended, and not being much of a turn on. No need for the pillow this time, except maybe to drown out Sandra's fevered licking. 

The couch under me is sunken in about halfway under my weight, and I'm only 95 pounds. The seedy motel walls drip black sludge, the carpet is shag and full of lice, the grime is built in and is a bonus, and these are obvious reasons as to why the room is so cheap. This isn't the best part of town to be in, of course, but it is the best place both of us can be, and besides, everywhere is the same nowadays. Now, if only I could go along with her this time. 

Like I said, this isn't normal. This isn't a time where both of us can scream at the top of our lungs and nobody would care. This isn't a time where it's necessary for one of us to bite the headboard while it bangs the other end against the wall, over and over. 

Sorry, Sandra, but I've got too much other shit on my mind. 

Deal with it. 

"Oh, fuck you, I'm leaving," she says, getting up and wiping her face off, looking disgusted. 

Or not. 

"If you didn't want to do this you could have told me, you bitch." She stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door. I guess she's pretty pissed about the wasted money spent on the room. 

But fuck all that. It doesn't matter right now. My mind is on other things. 

I pull my skirt and underwear back up, the material feeling soft against my open skin. I check myself out on the broken mirror on the wall. 

I still think black looks better than pink.

________________________

I fucking hate this city. 

This world. 

This life. 

What's depressing is that even if you have some hero seeming to be really, honestly, truthfully trying to make everything better than it is, you begin to realize that they are just like everyone else. It's nature that consumes everything, and it's nature that destroys. 

It's all about feeling good before someone kills you. Drugs, sex, murder. All the same dosage and prescription from the pharmacy. And you're your own fucking doctor. 

Become an addict. Go ahead. Before someone makes you a drug. Nowadays, you're either one or the other. The only way you're an in-between is if you're dead. 

The city smells like a giant pool of fluid. The steam rises from the vents in the street as if it were a giant creature breathing out its last breath. Around me everything screams and dies spontaneously. To my left, someone gets mugged and beaten to death. The dumpster ahead of me has stains on it, indicating an unwanted child. To my right, in an alley, emotion drips off the walls and onto broken glass . . . . . 

I shudder, and I pull my sweater tighter around me. It's summer and yet I feel icy. I'm cold, and yet I'm sweating. Each drop off of my face feels like it's being scraped off. 

I had told Rouge that we were going to the movies. It's only been a half an hour and already I'm going home. This will take some explaining.

This is how my life is. This is everyday to me. I've become so emotionally desensitized that my face is no longer an extension but a mask that moves sometimes. I may look happy, but underneath it's an entirely different story. 

This is a new thing, though. I usually don't go "home" unless it's to sleep. Rouge and I barely even speak to each other anymore, unless I need money that she can't afford to give, but does anyway. 

Why can't she fucking get a better job? There must be something out there other than letting male pigs empty their pockets and themselves on her. She has a PHD or whatever, for fuck's sake. Things can't get any worse so they should get better, right? 

I already know the answers to these. None of them are optimistic. 

The truth is, it probably can get worse. I guess I just don't see how yet. 

In about 15 minutes I reach the apartment complex, one that looks the same as the last one I was at. The superintendent is jerking off to porn, so I decide not to bother him and instead I walk inside. The floor we live on is up three flights of slippery stairs that I do not want to climb.  

Living in a place like this, you can never really hear much of anything in the other room, but you can have a pretty good idea. The problem is, what you end up doing is minding your own fucking business. Getting involved in anything is worse than forgetting the next day. Like that Cassandra girl or whatever. Knowledge of the world but the impossibility to do anything about it. That's really not so bad, though. I would rather risk a headache than a heart attack. Any day. 

I reach the door, the bottom of the sandals sticking to the floor. 

Home. 

Sort of. 

"Home."

I pluck the key out from under the matt before I realize that the door was left unlocked. Whoops.  

I barely have time to push it open before I hear the gun shot. 

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	2. This is where it begins

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**2. This is where it begins. ******

[TAILS, David Macintyre] 

My name is Miles Prower, but everyone calls me Tails, because I have two. I work in a convenience store.

It is this completely useless fact that has led me to my whole predicament. I know that last sentence sounded a little too brainy for my size. I didn't mean to.

Working in a convenience store—a dilapidated Fastrip, to be exact--hasn't exactly brought me the joys of having work that I had expected, the ones Sonic told me about. Sonic always said that earning money was a great thing, and to take pride in it you didn't even have to try. It felt good to earn money, he said, before joking about using that money to buy more stuff. More of the good stuff. Not funny.

I can't call it shit. Sonic always told me not to swear. I don't know why I should still respect him enough to listen.

He told me that working somewhere simple was best to start for someone my age. He told me there was a quick-e-mart near his place that I should try.

I went a few times. Eventually I got a job. And then I wound up here, in this happy little situation. Smiles and hugs for everyone.

Sorry if I seem a bit more sarcastic than usual, that is if you know me. If you don't know me, then get used to it.

Anyhow, back on track, right now I'm having a very bad day.

I came to work today with a headache. It only got worse.

Far too many customers today. I work on checkout. Wave after wave of butt ugly, rude people, expecting me to know what every damn person wants the second they step up to the counter. We [apparently] don't have apple flavor, sir. We [very obviously] don't sell those, miss. They're over there in front of the [fucking] door, miss.

I've still got another hour or so to go by the time I finish my break. I really need some coffee. The machine's broken.

I get back. I thought I wanted a longer break. I got one.

But it gets boring.

There aren't any customers. My shift has suddenly been extended (without any kind of warning), and there haven't been any for the last three hours. I guess I'm just that popular (and irritable), and nobody knows I'm working this late. I'm not allowed to read, play Game Gear, leave the counter, and there's nobody to talk to. My headache increases. I cough and feel like my head is going to blow apart for a split second.

"Boss… come on. Let me go."

"No, Miles."

"Boss, there haven't been any customers here for the last few hours. My [extended!] shift is officially over in ten minutes. Let me leave, please."

"No, Miles. You'll have to stay those ten minutes out."

I hate my boss. Well, my supervisor to be exact. I'm sure nearly everybody does.

I'm allowed to go. I feel like… stuff. Ten minutes can do wonders for your health.

As soon as my shift is over I make my way to the toilet and try to throw up in a dignified manner. It ends up coming out as tacked on acting. I really am throwing up. But it's no longer dignified.

As I prepare to leave, I know that I won't be able to fly home today. I pulled something the other day from abusing my gift.

Maybe it's just the stress. I'm still thinking that while I walk out the doors and consider giving the supervisor a sign. But I talk myself out of it. Sonic always told me stress can be hard on someone. He also said that you should always respect your boss externally. He knew from experience.

Which brings up a major point.

Sonic.

Sonic Sonic Sonic Sonic Sonic Sonic Sonic.

He taught me everything. He was my best friend, one of my only friends. He was my teacher, my mentor.

It is only after he raped my friend Amy Rose, turned her into a les, and got himself put in jail do I really appreciate the fact that I was dependent on him. And by appreciate I mean really realize, not necessarily… appreciate it.

I was dependent on him for support.

"So why don't you just ask her?"

I was dependent on him for friendship.

"You've always got me."

I was dependent on him for advice.

"That's not the way to do it, trust me."

And, most of all, I was dependent on him for protection.

"Listen… if I ever see you near my little buddy again, I'll make you take that insurance bullshit and shove it up your—"

"Well, if it isn't the little two-tailed freak. Hey, MAI-ulls."

My thoughts are cut short.

Since Sonic went to jail, I had to move back in with my parents, because I can't support the apartment on the equivalent of pumping gas, and they won't let me run away to my workshop slash cottage in the country. And now that I have money and none of Sonic's protection, I have to pay the 'insurance bullstuff'.

School, neighborhood, and mall thugs. You have to hate them. If you are one, I suggest you go cut yourself.

"What do you want?"

Nameless. I don't know the names of any of them except the girl over there on the right, ugly as sin, named Rita. They're all bigger and older than me, and unfortunately in my class because I was skipped ahead two grades. Of course, I still have no common sense.

"What do you think we want?"

I've mindlessly gone through the alley shortcut, completely forgetting that that's where they like to hang out. It's a dismal little area, short path from the direction I came from and then a fork going in opposite directions at the end. Fire escapes, dumpsters, you know the drill.

"I haven't gotten paid yet."

"Well, shoot me in the balls, neither have we. What a coincidence. GIVE IT."

"Look, I've only got two dollars…"

"That'll do as a down payment."

Down payment. Like they actually know what it means. They try to sound smart around me, because I've built planes and they're still struggling with long division. However I mostly pay this guy named Rotor to do my runway and mechanisms in my beach house, if you can call it that. He's a bit of a geek, but I can't stand dumb people as friends.

The following comment will annoy me beyond belief. They should get their own jobs somewhere.

"Man. Two dollars. That's pathetic, Miles! Come on, even my mom will give me more than that. You don't get us enough cash."

"Well, I'm sorry I can't be the man your mother is."

It takes a moment for the comeback to sink in. By then I've already proven the point that being one of the only kids in school who can fly is a definite advantage. Although I realize that lately I've been using it for escape a bit too much.

I give one or two somewhat painful spins of my rear appendages and leap in a Matrix manner to a fire escape above. By then they have realized they have been insulted and started yelling curses at me from down there. I leap from stairwell to stairwell, carelessly dodging crude projectile trash that eventually stops coming

But then it finally happens. This has been foreshadowed from the start.

I slip. 

My foot catches on something as I try to jump, and I begin careening to the alley floor below. I can't pick myself up because of my pulled muscle.

I hit solid concrete. Hard. I'm winded. But that doesn't stop them from practically kicking my head in.

"Little faggot…"

I groan loudly in pain as my nose is smashed against the concrete and I am bitch-slapped in the cheek. I don't think it's broken, but it's definitely bleeding. I don't cry. I never do.

As they leave, I throw up again.

And there's my little situation. I work in a convenience store. And as a result I frequently get pounded.

"Tails… Tails?"

She's older than me by two years, making her fifteen. She's in my class, and until recently I had a crush on her. She's now a lesbian. Her hair is pink and spiked down.

She helps me up from the ground and I turn to look at her after brushing off my… very recently washed… work uniform. Normally pink. Today white as a ghost.

"Hi, Tails…"

No, not the clothes.

"Hi, Amy." I rub my nose painfully. "Haven't got a tissue, have you?"

"Tails," she says weakly. Ignore the tissue then, I'll do without.

"What?"

"Tails."

Something's bothering her. She's not usually like this. For example, she's stupidly come here more than two hours after I was supposed to have finished.

"You know I should have finished hours ago."

"Oh…. Oh. Yeah."

"What's the matter, Amy? You look like you've seen a corpse in your bed or something."

"Well… bad news, Tails."

Juicy.

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	3. The attempt

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**3. The attempt.**

[AMY, Sean Catlett]

Hearing Tails' head hit the pavement again just confirmed my own theories on life and existence, that this place IS actually one big toilet with no place to drain. The stink is unbearable and it permeates all porous surfaces, but it's all too repulsive to notice what happens, the nerves already shot from over use. 

Tails, at least to me, is an exception of sorts. He is not the rule of the world. His kind, endangered. The demons that are all to common to be called rare or unique or frequent outnumber the rest. I see this shit go on everyday, everywhere I go. 

Every day a little part of me is killed along with them. 

I sympathize. Really, I do. Even when they leave and the aftermath is spilling on the streets, when all I want to do is comfort Tails . . . all I can think about is my problems and the trouble at home.

"Home."

Fuck this. 

I shouldn't have come. 

I want to leave. Leave, leave, leave.

Instead, I get up from my crouch and I walk up to Tails, calling his name a couple of times, as if I heard his voice from the street. He gets up and meets eyes with mine for a split second, but then looks down at the concrete, himself beneath him, all dignity gone. He tries to salvage as much as he can in front of me, wiping his face, all trace of what happened covered up in a hurry. 

Never more do I want to die. Right now. A meteor or something. COME ON!

I'm an arms length away from him when I stop. Nothing happens. No giant flaming sword or hell with high waters. No fire and brimstone.No mercy killing. 

Nothing. 

Then I help him up, awkwardly, only holding his arms. Minimizing bodily contact. Trying not give off the wrong vibe . . .

What the fuck?! Wrong vibe? Tails would never do that to me . . . . not like . . . .  

My hands drop to my sides. I'm breathing heavily. Fuck no, not now, not now . . .

gradually _the thoughts_ are _sta_ring _to degrade_

"Hi Tails."

R_o_uge . . . . . . 

"Hi, Amy . . . . . haven't got a tissue, have you?"

Ah. Yes, the ever-present light attitude. Good. That's good. Funny. Ha ha. Rouge might die. It's a joke. Laugh. 

A second passes, and still all I can say is "Tails?"

"What?"

"Tails."

None of you know. None of you know what I have to go through, every single day of my worthless life. Pity won't work here. Sympathy won't work here. Confessions maybe.  

"You know I should have finished hours ago."

_O_h . . . . _Oh y_e_a_h. 

I need to share this with someone, ANYONE. I'll unload on a fucking dildo if I had the money for batteries! FUCK!

"What's the matter, Amy? You look like you've seen a corpse in your bed or something."

Where's a fucking meteor when you need one?

________________________

No shit. 

I try to manipulate my mask so that it doesn't hide my frustration. He doesn't look convinced. 

"You really have no idea."

I suppose I should have expected this attitude, this 'not knowing how to act,' attitude. Why the hell should the story of my life rewrite itself. 

"I suppose not." My voice sounds so mad, but the rest is numb. 

This didn't go as planned. I told him what was happening; the phone calls, the murders, the hunger, the starvation. The insanity. 

He may as well had laughed at me.

"So… Rouge has tried to kill herself, and you've come to me about it?"

I just think you're scared, Tails. 

"Well… who was I supposed to see?"  

You're a scared little boy, Tails. The world changes you more and more every time I talk to you. I'm too late. Too late . . . 

"Did you think of the police?"

The police.They have a file of the incident. You know, the rape. When I was fucked. Yeah, that. And they never want me to forget it. Ever. I'm the world's punch line. 

I tell Tails to fuck off or something. I don't know. 

I just want this over with . . .

"Look, to be perfectly honest, I want to help, but I really don't know what you expect me to do.I mean, it's not MY adopted mother we're talking about here. If it was, I may have some idea, because then I'd HAVE to_. But I don't. So, Amy, I'm sorry, bla bla bla bla bla." _Did he say this? Is he making fun of me?

"Fuck, Tails, you're the brains. YOU think of something."The throw goes wild. 

"Are you serious?" Exasperation. Did I upset him? What the fuck is going on?

What's wrong with me?

Then he gives me this trip about how much trouble he is in for associating with me. It's the reason we haven't spoken in over two weeks. His parents. Those bastards. 

He's afraid of what they'll take away from him. 

I guess that's what it comes down to. Attrition. I guess losing Rouge is preferable to losing his computer. It must be all he has left. 

Well, Rouge is all I have left. Why can't he understand this?

The rest of the conversation is a blur that I don't want to remember correctly. Insults are thrown back and forth like a game of tennis. 

But fu_c_k, Ta_i_l_s_, th_is is_ R_o_uge we're talk_i_ng ab_o_ut!! _S_he'd d_o_ the _s_ame f_o_r y_o_u!!

_No. She's a surrogate mother, nothing more. And I don't know her well enough to give a shit about her. She gave Knuckles a boner because of her tits. Now he's dead and she's crazy. Fuck off. Try the police. _

Some time later, when one of us finally walked away, I remember feeling this profound loneliness, out for only myself.

________________________

I reach home, miserable and back to the beginning, worse off than I was before. The door closes and immediately the phone rings. 

"FUCK!"

 Somewhere else inside the room, Rouge lets out a cry because she knows who it is, as well as I do. I come running over to the phone from the hallway and I dive across to it, yanking hard and ripping the cord out of the wall. Too bad it didn't break, though. 

Right then, Rouge comes out, barely covered in ratty, week-old clothing, the bandage on her head stained red, the powder burn, a "Coal Miner's Tattoo"darker than the bleak black of the apartment. 

She gives me this warm, barely visible smile, laced with brain damage. It's hardly comforting. 

I hug the phone to myself, to fight off the chills. It's so cold. 

"Thanks," she says. "That's been bugging me all week," she says.

"Week?" My God. Where had I been?

"Yeah." She crosses her arms. "They want to reach me. It's something big." She shivers too, and collapses to the floor, almost sobbing. 

"Maybe they just want you back . . . ."

" . . . . No. This isn't right. It's something about . . ."

Something about what?

WHAT?! TELL ME!!

Nothing.           

I know that she's thinking about _HIM_ again. It's the only thing on her broken mind anymore. The only thing that sticks . . . 

This entire situation is really fucked up. 

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	4. The Supersonic Prison Sex Megamix

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**4. The Supersonic Prison Sex Megamix.**

[SONIC, Stephen Zacharus]

So there's this blue guy, right?  You might have heard of him.  Sonic the Hedgehog?  The fastest thing alive?  The Blue Blur?  The kicker-of-much-robot-ass?  Whatever.  He's saved the planet more times than anybody can remember.  He's so cool, in fact, that he can pound any of Dr. Eggman's evil schemes to steaming shit whenever he wants without breaking a sweat--in his *sleep* even!  Everybody thought that this way-past-cool blue guy was invincible.  

Yeah.  I fucking *wish*.

Anyway, the rumor is that this Sonic dude is the world's hero.  Oh, wait--correction.  *Was*.  Sonic the Hedgehog *was* the world's hero.  Now he's locked up in prison because he couldn't keep his dick to himself.

Damn.  I'm quite the storyteller this afternoon, aren't I?  Hell, I should write an autobiography; it's not like I have anything better to do.  I'd probably sell a million copies.  People are sick that way--always wanting to get inside the minds of those equally sick bastards who just happen to be unlucky enough to get caught.  

What people seem to ignore is that we all make mistakes: even celebrities, interestingly enough.  Never mind the fact that life had been only slightly more than demanding for me up to that point.  Never mind the fact that I was stoned off my ass.  Never mind the fact that the little bitch had probably wanted it to begin with.  If she didn't want to leave me the hell alone, what the fuck should she expect?  A date to the prom?  Sorry, but that's just not my style.  Sue me for wanting to take back a little power in my life.

Rape?  It was more like... personal sovereignty.  If only for a little while.

Fuck, I can hardly even remember what happened. 

I do remember framing Knuckles, though.  Well, what *else* was I going to do?  I needed to save face, and he was in the right place at the wrong time.  The bastard practically invited me to do it.  Knock him out, exchange clothes, dump him in an alley, battabing: and I *knew* he wouldn't remember shit because of all those freaking hallucinations and the "I don't know what's real anymore!" episodes he was having at the time.  Let's face it, the guy was cracked.  If it weren't for the off-chance of Amy Rose getting pregnant, I'd probably have gotten away with the whole thing.  

But hey--at least that mental-case echidna is out of my life forever.  Just before they caught me, you see, Knux had somehow vanished from the face of the planet.  Nobody knows what the hell happened to him.  Probably jumped off that screwed-up island of his and killed himself.  Poor, dumb fuck.

I'm reading the newspaper right now, actually.  The front page headline reads: "Mysterious 'vampire murderer' strikes again."  Subheadline: "Third body recovered in Station Square alley.  Who's next?"  Ironically, I can only think about how refreshing it is that the press has stopped printing shit about me.

I read on to find out that the third victim on this serial killer's hitlist is none other than Meaters Prower--Tails' short, fat-ass older cousin.  That kid had it coming to him.  Stupid, ignorant daydreamer. That's what you get for being naïve.  

"You should talk," you're probably thinking right now.  You think that I've screwed up for good, don't you?  You think that spending a few years in jail is going to ruin my life. You think that I can't find a way to gain back my reputation somehow.  You think that I'm as good as dead--*worse* than dead, because nobody will ever respect me again.

Well, fuck you.

I can fix anything.  You'll see.

In the meantime, I set the paper down for a moment and recall the other murder victims.

Nack the Weasel.  Jewel thief, amateur pimp.  I think that Rouge might have done business with him at one time, actually.  Stealing stuff for him, of course (I know damn well what you were thinking).

Manic the Hedgehog.  That's right, my own brother.  Oh, don't worry, life's better without him--believe me.  Come to think of it, we hadn't spoken a word to each other since the world started to idolize me.  Yeah, it's been that long.  Bastard.

And now Meaters Prower makes for three.  All of the murder victims were found in various, isolated areas around Station Square.  Each of the bodies bore the same distinguishing marks: thick, deep puncture wounds in the neck and the complete absence of any bodily fluids whatsoever.  They looked kinda like beef jerky, actually.  

I'm such a charmer, aren't I?

Haw haw haw.

Suffice it to say that the police are completely baffled on this case.  Some of the more superstitious citizens of Station Square are adamantly certain that this is the work of a vampire run amuck.  I guess they can believe whatever they'd like.

I just think it's kind of funny that each of these three victims happened to be related in one way or another to three of Eggman's most notorious arch nemeses.  No big deal.  Just a little coincidence, right?

Then again, of course, nobody cares what *I* think anymore.

I snatch up a pair of headphones laying next to me and put them on--plugging them into a small, portable FM radio that Tails had given to me during one of his frequent visits.  I don't know what I'd do without that kid; his radio is practically the only thing that keeps me from going insane in this fucking cell.

I'm greeted by a steady, thumping synthesizer as soon as I flip on the little device.  A woman speaks breathily in rhythm.

[_Erotic... erotic..._]

[_Put your hands all over my body..._]

[_Let my mouth go where it wants to..._]

What the hell?!!

[_My name is Dita._]

[_I'll be your MISTRESS TONIGHT._]

[_I'll give you love, I'll HIT YOU like a TRUCK._]

[_I'll give you love, I'll teach you HOW TO..._]

I change the station before she can finish.  Madonna sucks anyway.

The next station explodes into a violent guitar riff and a deep, throaty growl.  Shit, yeah.  My kind of music.

[_Hey SQUEALER-- when I HELD her hand._]

[_Squealer -- MADE her understand._]

[_Squealer -- when I kissed her LIPS._]

[_Squealer -- and SUCKed her FINGER tips._]

[_Squealer -- she started getting HOT._]

[_Squealer -- made it HARD to..._]

I change the station.  Isn't there any good music on the airwaves these days?

Next station: more heavy metal.  Hell yes.

[_Won't you come a bit CLOSER,_]

[Close enough so I can SMELL you.]

[_Got your HANDS BOUND,_]

[_Your head down, your EYES closed._]

[_You LOOK so..._]

Damn.  Next station.

[_I can feel YOUR BODY_]

[_PRESSED against MY BODY._]

[_When you start to POUNDIN',_]

[_Love to FEEL you thr..._]

Um, no.  Next station.

[_Like a ROCK, ohh like a ROCK..._]

Christ, even *Bob Sieger* can be taken the wrong way.

Next station.

[_Let's get UNCONSCIOUS honey._]

[_Inside, we're all still WET..._]

Next station.

[_You and me babe ain't nothin' but mammals,_]

[_So let's DO IT like they DO on the Discovery Channel._]

Next fucking station.

[_FEEL me up INSIDE YOU, how you QUIVER and SHAKE..._]

I can't believe they even play this shit on the radio.

Next.

[_TIE ME UP tie me down._]

[_Make me MOAN real loud._]

[_TAKE OFF MY CLOTHES._]

[_No one has to know._]

[_Whisperin__'._]

[_I wanna FEEL a soft..._]

Next.

[_Let's GET IT ON..._]

Next!

[_Colonel Sanders says it best:_]

[_"FINGER-LICKIN' GOOD..."_]__

ShitdamnMOTHER*FUCKER*!!!

Isn't it bad enough that I'm reminded of my screw-up every time I wake up in this fucking cell?  Now I have to hear it on the FUCKING RADIO, TOO?!?!!  It's not like sex is all I think about.  

Okay, well, I've thinking about it a little more than usual since my...

Oh, fuck it, I've BEEN THINKING ABOUT IT EVERY SINGLE FUCKING MOMENT OF EVERY SINGLE GODDAMN DAY.

I tear off the headphones and chuck the radio across the room; it hits the bed and bounces lightly to a rest on my pillow, unscathed.  Just to spite me, too.  I fucking hate prison.

I grab my little spiral pad and start scrawling notes into it.  I write in it whenever I can't stop thinking about... that.  You know, just a jot here or there--stray fragments of whatever I can remember about that night.

It starts out like so:

_In.  Out.  In.  Out.  Further in.  Further out.  Warning shot.  Rest.  Relieved moaning.  Back in.  Pleasured grunt.  More.  More.  God, I am loving this..._

And you know the rest.

To what's already written, I've just added this:

_I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done--but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing._

I continue.  And continue.  And continue.  I pause to erase the angry tears that are staining my face.

Nobody sees Sonic the Hedghog cry.  Not today, not ever.

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	5. The Prowers That Be

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**5. The Prowers That Be. ******

[TAILS, David Macintyre] 

Sometimes I think the Powers That Be get their kicks out of fucking with my life. Not to mention my mind. Too much insane shit has been happening to me lately to have any other explanation.

That's the only thing on my mind now, that and how worried I am that I or any member of my family could be next, when I'm supposed to be thinking about how much I miss Meaters already. I'm probably one of only four people who aren't crying at the moment, out of something like fifty. A Prower funeral always turns out to be something of a family reunion.

The first person not crying. Me, obviously. I've got a lot on my mind, okay? Sue me if you think I'm being insensitive.

The second, the bishop himself, reading out his psalms or hymns or whatever the fuck they're called. He wouldn't be crying anyway.

Third, Meaters himself, so horrifically dead that he was cremated BEFORE the service began. I can't imagine a whole lot of people would want to be saying goodbye and holding his hand when he looks like a piece of very stiff, wrinkly paper. Besides his reddish fur, anyway. He even still had his face locked in a scream.

And fourth, most surprising of all, Meaters' own little brother, Kays. My cousin, probably my favorite cousin, Amy's age. He's two or three years younger than Meaters, but taller. Definitely taller than me, by about shoulders and a head. I'd think HE of all people would be the most affected by the death, besides his parents. But no.

Kays is sitting next to me, matter of fact. I can't really tell what his expression is. His red hair is nicely combed, as always, hanging down to the middle of his shoulder blades. His forelocks hang on either side of his eyes, covering part of his mouth. I can't tell if he's got that scheming smile he always seems to wear.

Like me, he's wearing a tux. But mine has a gray jacket. His entire outfit, minus the white shirt, is dark matte black.

Come to think of it, I'm not sure how much time he actually spent with his brother.

The dark, wooden seats, fancily dressed preacher, and stain glass windows that bring on a depressing atmosphere don't seem to do much for his usual nonchalance.

It's a sobering thought to think that lately, I've been becoming more and more like him.  

He's a little different from me when it comes to his thoughts, though, but in a nicely blending sort of way. He schemes, I build. He's the talk, I'm the do. I'm the brains, and he's the mastermind. A lot of the family think that if we hung out more, we'd eventually be famous for some half assed reason.

It seems like we should be closer than we are. Hell, most people would think we'd be inseparable.  But we're not. End of discussion.

I hear him sigh loudly. It sounds like a mixture of remorse and boredom, but there's no sadness in it.

Cold. Frigid. Stone. No sadness for the death of his older brother.

I'm just becoming

More 

like

him

I really 

shouldn't

be

like

this

It's not

something

to

be

proud

of

Why

am

I

acting

like

this

I

was

a

hero's

best

friend

once

Now

I'm

just

acting

like

a

total

dick

"Wake up, man."

I look over to the left at the sound of Kays' smooth voice.

I notice a glimpse of moisture around the bottom of his eye.

At least he's not totally cold.

"Is it over?"

Apparently so; the family and whatever friends are here are all standing up to organ music, filing out of the room while some of them go to collect the body. Or what's left of it.

"Yeah. I suppose we go to bury him now, huh?"

"That WOULD be traditional. But I suppose keeping the box of ashes on the coffee table would make for a good conversational piece."

"Ah. Of course, 'Tails' Prower and his famous sense of good décor."

Surprisingly enough, we choose to walk to the burial when asked, rather than ride with our parents. Hell, it's only a block.

A few others have followed in our footsteps, an uncle and some niece of mine I don't know about. I try to keep my voice down when Kays talks to me.

"So… you worked with that Sonic guy, didn't you?"

Sensitive topic.

"Think he did it?" he asks.

I don't look towards him.  
  


"I KNOW he did it."

"Yeah, well… you know, the police were probably waiting for a chance like that. Make some big news, frame him by faking a DNA test. Big news."

"Ah. Of course, Kays Prower and his famous sense of needless skepticism."

"Shut up, Tails."

This is why we aren't closer. We'd rather be rivals. If I was the same height as him, it might help. If I got as many girls as he did, it might help. If I looked as cool in a suit as he did, it might help.

"You know, you don't seem too choked up about it. He WAS your brother."

"That BOY was an idiot," he says coldly, his eyes still not turning to mine. "I feel the way the rest of the family does, dead on the inside, but unlike them, I'm not openly soaking my crotch over it."

I'd forgotten how dark he could be. 

He didn't used to be like this. Truth be told he was once the crybaby of the family. Then when he turned thirteen he started becoming somewhat cynical. Like I am now.

Maybe this is a genetic thing. Maybe I can't fight it. Maybe it's just natural.

I keep mulling over it the whole way through the burial. I still can't shed a tear for my dead cousin. Again, Kays gets a little moist, but it doesn't last long.

I don't want to end up like him.

So what should I do?  
  


I go to the only person I know who can help.

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	6. Behind glass

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**6. Behind glass.**

[SONIC, Stephen Zacharus]

"You have a visitor."

I do?  

"Peachy."

Forgive my sarcasm, asshole, but I'd much rather stay in my cell and finish "reading" this Playboy…

"Let's go, Hedgehog.  Now."

*Shit*.

I fucking hate prison.

Two guards escort me to the Visitors Wing--which is really nothing more than a dim, largish room split in half width-wise by a long counter, consisting in turn of about fifteen separate cubicles.  Visitors sit on the other side of the counter, behind a pane of nice, safe, thick glass.  Need I go on?  Come on, you've seen 'em in a dozen movies.  

I can guess who my caller is even before I see him.  Sure enough, the guards take me to my designated booth: face to glass to face with Tails Prower.  Damn, I'm good.

"How're ya, kid?" I say as I sit down, trying my best to look at least somewhat enthusiastic for him; he's really the only person I can still call a friend anymore, after all.  One of the guards is about to remind me about the time limit, but I give him a look that tells him I don't need to hear it again.

I turn back to Tails, saying something along the lines of: "Hey, I'm sorry to hear about your cousin; I read that article in the paper a couple days ago."  

It suddenly dawns on me that I'm no good at this sensitive shit, so I shut up.

Tails just nodded sullenly.  "I was just at the funeral."  

Heh.  Funny.  Not "Meaters' " funeral or "his" funeral, but "the" funeral.  Psychological disassociation--subtle, but still there.  I read about it in some magazine a while ago.

…………

Fuck, I just thought it was interesting.  OKAY?!

Well, in any case, now I knew why the kid was so dressed up.

"This is, what, how many murders now?" I ask, trying to make conversation.  I know damn well how many murders there were, so keep your fucking comments to yourself.

"Three."

"Damn.  I hear that they think it's some sort of vampire or something."

He gives a sarcastic snort.  "Yeah.  That's the police for you."

We laugh a little.  God, this is awkward.  I don't want to be here…

"So, uh… what'd ya come down here for, bro?  Small talk or whatever?"

"I dunno," he says, shaking his head.  He looks uncomfortable--almost as uncomfortable as *I* feel, come to think of it.  "I guess I'm just a little shaken up by this whole… thing.  I figured you've been reading up on it, so I was wondering if you had any thoughts on what these murders really mean… any patterns you notice so far, maybe.  You know, criminal stuff.  You're good at that sort of thing, aren't you?"

Something about the way he says that pisses me off.

"Just what the fuck is *that* supposed to mean?"

Whoa… cool off, Hedgehog.  The kid probably didn't mean anything by it, anyway.

"Solving crimes," he says, suddenly more than a little tense now.  "That's all I meant.  I'm sorry."

See?

I feel like shit now.

"It's okay, kid.  I'm… just a little messed up lately, that's all.  You know, prison life.  That sort of crapola.  It's got me a little on-edge."

And just then I notice that Tails looks pained, maybe even…

Guilty?

He swallows it down, whatever it is.

"I did notice one thing," I say, "about the murders."

"That they're all related somehow to you or me or Rouge?"

"Bingo."

"I noticed that, too.  But it's too early to tell if it's just coincidence or not, isn't it?  We've got a lot of friends and family in Station Square."

We?  Ha, ha.

"The odds of somebody that we know getting randomly murdered by whoever this is just doesn't seem all that unlikely to me.  None of them were particularly close to us, either."

Hmm.  Smart kid.  Not jumping to conclusions.  I should take a few lessons from him.

But still…

"Eggman's behind this somehow," I say.

"You think so?"

"I *know* so."

"There's no proof yet."

"He's trying to get to me--annoy the hell out of me.  It's a mind game.  He knows he can get away with it because I'm in *here*."

"So what do we do?"

"We wait it out, I guess.  There's really nothing we *can* do."  

And I lower my voice so the distant guards won't hear me, snickering.  "Unless, of course, you want to help me bust out of here."  

We laugh.  What Tails doesn't realize, though, is that I'm only half-joking.

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	7. Family ties

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**7. Family ties.**

NOTE:  The characters of Miranda, Tyler and Kinoa are the property of Firechidna.  Used with permission.

[TAILS, David Macintyre] 

This is my house.

"Well, well, well, look who's finally home. Where've you been all night, Gemini?"

This is my brother Tyler. Seventeen.

"Oh no, you're not getting away that easily."

*Headlock.*

He brings the term 'sibling rivalry' to all new levels.

"What took you so long to get home, Gemini? Mom and dad have been worried."

Tyler has been insanely jealous of me ever since I became friends with Sonic, but he doesn't like to show it. The one new thing I learned about my family on returning home that actually stuck was that Tyler had taken up body building.

*Knee.*

"You shouldn't wander off from your family on an occasion like this, Gemini. I was getting bored."

Gemini. Probably the most intelligent connection he'll ever make in his life.

He speaks, but I don't listen as he pushes me head first into the floor.

*Kick.*

I roll over and look up into his grinning fox face. That usual bullying smirk, his stale breath, his hair as unkempt as ever despite that he had it perfect only a few hours ago stares down at me.

"I bet I know where you've been, Gemini," he says, pinning me without much effort. I don't fight it. "You've been visiting the dyke again, haven't you?"

He means Amy, of course. I haven't told the family about my visits with Sonic.

Amy. Another of my friends he wishes he had. Another asset of mine he can be jealous about. Along with just about everything about me. 

Tyler. The lesser sibling.

All my life I've had to deal with people like this, and now it's just coming back.

I used to be able to take refuge in what was always so 'wrong' with me.

My tails, for instance. They earned me my nickname 'The Anal Gemini'.

*Punch.*

I used to be able to just wave my tails around,

*Kick.*

leap into the air,

*Knee.*

and ask them if THEY can fly.

Ask them if THEY have my friends, my life.

Ask them if THEY can build war machines.

Ask them if THEY have seen more of the world and had more fun in thirteen years than most people have in their entire lives.

Ask them if THEY will ever be me.

And you know what?

*Punch.*

*Knee.*

*Kick.*

*Slam.*

The answer is always no.

But now I can't do that anymore.

I'm just not so proud to be me anymore.

"Stop now, Ty," a familiar voice peeps from my right.

Miranda, my younger sister. Seven. Much as we get on each other's nerves, I am happy for her intervention right now.

See, Miranda's the only member of the family Tyler will listen to if he doesn't want to. And for as long as I've known her—about five months in all—I have never been able to figure out why. He's the beast, and she's the master.

"Lucky boy," Tyler spits, grinning acidly. He lets go of me and I get up without a word.

"Say thank you," Miranda demands as I walk out of the sweat-stinking room. I look down at the little brown-haired midget.

I want to say 'bite me', or 'suck it', or 'kiss my ass,' or 'fuck YOU'.

"Thanks," I hiss, not in the mood for any more playtime with Tyler. He resumes pumping iron, turning to face his window.

I turn left and put my hand on the door to my bedroom, but suddenly realize how thirsty I am. I turn around and solemnly cross the mahogany walls of the hallway to the second floor landing at the end. I see my other little sister, Kinoa, six, coming up from downstairs with one of her dolls.

"Hi, Kini," I say somewhat darkly as I pass. She smiles her cute little girl smile.

"Hi, Tails."

She's the only one in the family who ever calls me that. And that's probably why she's the only one I get along with. I've only known her for three months. She was born when I wasn't living here. My family and I didn't stay in contact at that point.

I HATE the name Miles. It reminds me too much of where I come from—snooty rich blood.

I reach the big living room that leads to the kitchen.

"MILES!" I hear. Great. I don't stop walking.

"Yes, dad," I say, turning right and walking into the kitchen.

"Miles, where have you been?! Your mother and I have been very worried."

Yeah, I'll bet.

"Went to a friends house," I lie, looking away. I reach into the fridge.

"Why didn't you call us?"

Stuff.

I SHOULD have. There were eight payphones on the way home and I still forgot to alibi.

"I realize you're upset, Miles, but so are we. We don't want to lose you, too."

"Oh, give me a BREAK, dad, you couldn't have been happier to get rid of me when I went to live with Sonic. Or have you already forgotten how you didn't speak to me for a week once I came in the front door?"

He looks cold. I regret it.

"…sorry."

"I know what this is about," he says. Oh, gods, here it comes. "You've been calling on that girlfriend of yours again. Amy Rose."

Sigh.

"Yeah, that's where I've been. You caught me." Better than the alternatives. Argue for an hour or say I saw Sonic.

"Miles, we don't want you dating a girl like that."

I snort loudly. Then openly laugh.

"Oh come on, dad, are you stoned?! She's a lesbian and you know it."

"You could be just saying that."

Pang.

"Dad, trust me, if I was dating a girl like Amy, I wouldn't lie about it."

He seems silent. I guess for once he can relate.

"All right, fine, but we still don't want you associating with types like her. She's dangerous."

She's dangerous. There's no 'could be' or 'she might be', no 'just maybe', no 'kinda', no 'sort of'. Just 'she's dangerous'.

"Dad, there is NOTHING wrong with Amy. She's just having a hard life right now."

"And from what I understand it's because of that friend of yours, Sonic."

"Dad, don't bring Sonic into this. Mistakes were made."

"I'm not going to hear it, Miles," he says, adjusting his coat. "This discussion is over for now, but if you ever go near that girl again, I'll—Miles? Miles, where are you going? WHERE ARE YOU GOING? Come back here!"

**

Amy.

Amyamyamyamyamyamyamyamyamyamyamy…

I need to call her. Now.

I lift up the cordless phone on the dresser. I punch in her number.

Ring…

Ring…

Ring…

R

I

N

G

.

.

.

Finally someone picks up.

"Hello?"

She sounds exhausted.

"Sorry, Amy… did I wake you up?"

Sigh.

  
"Oh… Jesus, Tails, you scared me."

"Why?"

"…never mind. What do you want?"

I can't say anything for a moment. I swallow. Choke.

"I…"  
  
"Are you crying?"

Damn it.

"…No. No, I am not crying."

"Tails, what do you want?"

"I just… I don't know, Amy. My cousin was murdered. We had his funeral today."

"And?"

….

"And… you know, it's all over the newspa—"

"Tails, please, if you don't have something a little more concise to talk about, could you please hang up and let me get some sleep? Things are getting really hairy over here."

….

God…

Shit.

"Look… Amy, I…I'm worried."

"Why?"

"I… Amy, if anything happens… you know, over the next few weeks, and you can't reach me at home, I want you to try my cousin Kays' apartment. I'll more than likely be there. Here's the number." I tell her.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"…Amy…"

"Tails, are you going to die?"

…

…

…

.

.

.

"…no, Amy. No. I'm not. I'm NOT going to die. I am not gonna die."

"Thank god. I will sleep better knowing that," she says, a little more sarcastically than I'd like.

"Yeah, whatever. Just go back to bed, Amy."

"Thank you." We both hang up.

…

Bitch.

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	8. That Robotnik vibe

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**8. That Robotnik vibe.**

[SONIC, Stephen Zacharus]

"Hey, Hedgehog—you gonna come get your mail or what?"

"Hey, asshole—could you be any less fucking polite?"

The guard glares at me through the bars of my cell.  "Fuck you, you little sarcastic prick.  Here--"  He wads up the small, singular envelope and throws it onto my bed.  "--Enjoy.  Shithead."

I wait a few minutes to be sure that the guard is gone before curiosity gets the better of me and I uncrumple the envelope.  Hmm… no return address; only my name and cell number written in elegant, fountainpen cursive.

Inside the envelope is a folded piece of what probably *should* have been fresh, crisp parchment if it hadn't been for that damn guard.  Anyway, the note seems to have been written by the same person who addressed the envelope…

Eh.  What the hell.  I'll read it.

_Dearest Hedgehog,_

_I deduce that your, shall we say, 'restrained' situation must prove terribly frustrating for you--especially in light of those pesky serial murders that have been turning up as of late.  Itching to solve the case, are you?  Well I'm sorry, my old friend, but you can't do that from prison… and as much you'd like to deny it, not even your two-tailed former protégé has the resources to outwit me.  This is one battle you're not ever going to win, and you won't believe the euphoria that the very idea has delivered to me._

_One by one you'll see them die.  Your friends, your family, your acquaintances, your (former) friends' friends--starting with the most distant and working up to more personal subjects.  Let's just say that a couple friends of my own have something of a thirst for blood._

_I'll bet you think that this letter is incriminating evidence, don't you?  Touché!  You won't find my name anywhere on this document or on the envelope, nor will you find any fingerprints or hairfibers or similar forensics that could otherwise connect me to the letter.  The handwriting you see here, by the way, is not mine but that of my trusty secretarial robot (and if you think *that* little bit of information is enough to incriminate me, think again; there are over five hundred secretary 'bots used in thirty-six corporate businesses in Station Square alone).  In any case, you can either go through the trouble of running a handwriting analysis or simply take my word for it--the choice is yours._

_In closing, I'll take a brief moment to wish you luck on solving the case.  As the old axiom goes: 'you're gonna need it.'  In the meantime, do stay healthy.  Oh, and try not to drop your soap bar in the community shower; I understand that could be dangerous in prison.  But then again, what do I know?_

_Au revoir.___

_Sincerely,  You Know Who._

I can't believe it.  I can't fucking believe it.  

Eggman is teasing me.

It *is* him, you know.  There's no question about that, oh no.  It's him.  The son of a bitch thinks he's won, and this is his chance to rub the salt in.

"Guard!" I yell, rushing at the bars to my cell with my letter.  "Guard!!!  I know who's behind the Vampire Murders!  It's Eggman!  I have proof right *here*--fucking proof!  Goddamn it, LISTEN to me!!!"

"Save it for somebody who cares, Hedgehog," calls that fat piece of shit from down the hall, reclined in a folding chair.  He goes back to reading his magazine without a second thought.

And that's just the thing.  Pity I didn't realize it sooner.

NOBODY cares.

At this moment, I've never felt so nauseated in my life.

___________________

"Tails, it's him."

"Who?"

"Robotnik.  I got a letter from him the other day; no name or return address, but it *sounds* like him.  And things are only gonna get bloodier as he keeps going."

"So what do you expect *me* to do?  Try to take him down myself?  You and I both know that I'm not capable of that."

"It's more than that, Tails.  After reading that letter, I think that you might be an eventual target."

The kid doesn't say anything for a long time.  I can't blame him.  If somebody told *me* that a murderer might be after me, I wouldn't know what to say, either.

"Eggman's got me pissed," I say, if nothing else to break the silence, "and I'm gonna do something about it."

"How?  You're in prison.  They won't let you anywhere *near* Eggman."

Little Sherlock here, eh?

Voice low, I tell him, "That's why I'm getting outta here."

He shoots me his skeptical "yeah right" look.  "Uh huh.  And how the hell do you plan to do THAT?"

I shoot him my severe "quiet the fuck down" look, whispering.  "I'm gonna need your help, bro."

A pause.

"You must be joking."

"I'm fucking serious!"

"I can't do that," he says fiercely, eyeing the security guard who's sitting behind me at a distance.  "This is crazy.  I can't just… well, you know… DO that.  And you're here for a reason, you know."

"Mother*fuck* that," I spit at him.  "The point is that people are fucking dying out there and nobody can stop it but me.  This situation is *above* the law."

"Well, then let's say that *hypothetically* I agree to…"  From the looks of it, he's choosing his words carefully just in case anybody is listening.  "…um.  Well, that I agree.  What then?  How do you propose that we're even gonna… er… you know, do… *this*?"

"You're good with computers."

"I'm the best."

I laugh.  He gets his bravado from me.

"That's right, you're the best.  And I hear the guards talking about their security system now and again.  It's completely automated through a computer network, locks and alarms and everything.  All you'd need to do is hack into the system and override it.  Real quiet escape.  They'd go all night without noticing, probably."

A few moments go by.  I look behind me to make sure the guard isn't paying too much attention.  He's not.

"Look, kid," I say, my tone softening, "I know what I'm asking you to do here.  But Eggman can't get away with this.  If I'm in here, he's free to keep killing people, maybe even *you*, too.  And if you EVER got hurt, man, I don't know *what* I'd do."

"I can take care of myself, Sonic."

Heh.  They grow up fast, don't they?  Sometimes their mouths grow faster, though.

I play along anyway.  "Of course you can, bro.  But what about everyone else?  People are *dying*.  They need my help."

Silence.

"What happens afterwards?" Tails asks after a moment.  "What are you gonna do after you take care of Eggman?  Go back to jail?  Like hell you will."

Hmm.  To be honest, I haven't really thought that far ahead.  In the back of my mind I've been thinking that maybe after the whole thing is over I'll earn myself a lesser sentence or, fuck, maybe even an absolution.  Aw, hell, in either case I'd probably skip the country and move to Tahiti or somewhere and lay low for a while.

"I don't know yet," I say honestly.  "We'll figure that out when the time comes, okay?  Right now we've gotta focus on beating Eggman once and for all."  I pause, my eyes never leaving his.  He doesn't look confident.

"My cousin Kays is in town," he says slowly, almost awkwardly.  "He's as good as I am at hacking.  Maybe even better.  I can ask him to help, too."

"How long do you think it'll take to plan this thing?"

"Couple weeks at least.  Not sure."

"I need a definite timeframe, kid.  Something to plan for.  We've gotta be on the same page."  

"Three weeks, then.  That should give us plenty of time."

"We don't have that long.  Ten or more people could be dead in that amount of time.  Two weeks."

A sigh.  "Fine.  Two weeks."

"So you're with me, then?"

In an instant, the faintest grimace appeared and disappeared from Tails' face.  

"Yeah.  I'm with you."

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	9. Don't answer the phone

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**9. Don't answer the phone.**

NOTE:  The characters of Miranda, Tyler and Kinoa are the property of Firechidna.  Used with permission.

[TAILS, David Macintyre] 

There should have been other things on my mind on the way home and into my room. My homework, school, girls, porno, anything.

But no. All I could think about was what happened in that room. Or more accurately, what got me into that room. And him.

Stress.

Stress gets to Sonic very, very easily. Over the time I've known him, his methods of stress relief have grown and changed as he has. Started with the standard squeezy ball, moved on to punching bag, then to occasionally punching people. A life of heroism tends to take its toll on your personal life, especially when it comes to getting turned down by girls who would otherwise go out with you, because they don't want to be publicity stunts. I'd know.

So then it happened. Some friend of his sold him drugs.

The day I saw him buy that shit–the moment they entered his hand–if you listened really, really close, you could just hear the lid of Hell popping off.

Never let a person like Sonic near drugs. He got addicted. I knew he would, the retard. I warned him.

Sorry, I'm ranting.

He started trying different kinds. It was almost funny. Trying to find 'his' kind. The kind that most made him feel better.

Then he got ME on it. Of course. I'm just a fucking sheep, did I have a choice? I follow him anywhere.

So that's what was. I ended up as a regular. Ruined my life, took most of my money.

I won't even explain the general attitude I got from my family when I appeared on their doorstep after Sonic's trial. I dreaded going back just as much as they reluctantly allowed me back in. But where else could I have gone?

I could tell you later, but I won't.

Right now I've got to answer the phone.

I get up from my chair and pick up the cordless phone from the hallway outside my room. 

I'm still dressed in my tux–the fabric breathes in the drafty, yellow-carpeted hallway. I grip the opening in the jacket above my stomach.

"He…hello?"

"Tails?"

It's Amy.

"Oh… Hi, Amy. What do you want?"

"Look, this is–Oh my god, hold on."

This doesn't sound good.

I hear some talking in the background. It seems Amy is trying to fend off a visitor. A 

minute later, the creaky door shuts, and she picks up the phone again.

"Tails?"

"Yeah."

"Where the hell have you been? I left you a message."

I've been home maybe half an hour. I checked the answering machine. Nothing.

"Funeral, then… went to get some food, then I came home. I think my parents deleted it." I choked in time to stop myself from saying that I visited Sonic. Even the thought of her scared recoil hurts me now.

I hear her murmur an f-word under her breath. "Look, how fast can you get here?"

Oh, shit… here comes trouble.

"And why should I go over there at this hour?"

"Answer the goddamn question, Miles."

Oops. She called me Miles. This is serious.

"On foot about two hours…"

Surprisingly she doesn't ask how long by air. Just goes straight to

"Any choices?"

I tell her the alternative, glancing around to make sure nobody's listening. She isn't particularly enthusiastic about it, but it will work. She breathes heavily, pausing at a slight crackling sound.

"What was that?"

"Probably just your breath on the receiver. Go on."

"Look, I need you here as soon as possible… this is–oh shit, hold on again." She goes and checks something else, whatever it is.

At that very moment, my 7-year-old little sister, Miranda, strolls obliviously through the door, probably looking for one of her dolls.

She stops suddenly and looks up at me, a blank look on her childish face. She points accusingly and speaks in her innocent infant's tone.

"You're talkin' to Amy again, huh?"

Oh, fuck, not now, Miranda.

"Miranda, go away."

"Yes you are."

I resist the urge to swear at her.

"And so what if I am?"

"Mommy says you can't talk to her, cuz she's a lezbin. And she's dangerous."

"Well, mommy is a homophobic, and doesn't have any faith in my survival skills."

"I'm telling."

God…

"Fine, you do that."

With that, she finally leaves me in peace, exiting the room with a faint cry of "Mommyyyy…."

Fuck. Now my parents are going to know. I'm in shit if I try to sneak out.

Amy picks up the phone again. And I don't feel like fucking risking my skin right now, so I answer in what I hope is a fair and dignified manner.

"And just why should I help you?"

There is a slight pause.

"What?!"

"I went to you when my cousin got killed, and you just blew me off. And it's seven effing thirty, you want me to go traipsing into the city this time of evening?"

She sighs. She sounds exasperated.

"Look, I don't have time for your fucking pity games, okay?! If you're going to act like a little baby, I'll handle this myself, but if you DO get off your ass and come help, bring a weapon."

"Amy--!"

With that, she slams the phone down.

Bring a weapon? This sounds serious. I'd better do something.

Unfortunately, now I know where that crackling sound came from. Shortly after Amy, there is another sound of a phone being hooked up.

My parents were listening.

"Miles!"

My dad's voice calls up the stairs. I'll bet he was sitting his pompous ass on the couch in 

that bathrobe of his, listening to every word.

"What?!"

"Was that Amy Rose?"

"So what if it was?"

"We don't want you associating with that girl, Miles!"

Too fucking bad. I don't even listen. I just run back into my room and search for something, anything I could call a weapon. I don't have any (finished) firearms, but the wooden bat that I've barely touched since I started high school will do.

"Miles, what are you doing? Listen to me!"

"Amy needs help," I say flatly, taking the bat and trying to find something I can carry it in. My dad's face is like a tomato as he blocks the door. My eyes scan the room for an exit. I'm good at this.

"God damn it, Miles, you are NOT going out into the city by yourself at night to see

some drug addict lesbian girl!"

My eyes fall on the window.

"She's NOT on drugs!"

I go over to it, trying to look like I want air.

"How do you know that?!"

I hoist one knee on the sill and fully open it, prepping my muscles for the fall.

"Because I'm not a fucking homophobe!"

Even if he had torn down my shelf with the roar of anger that follows, it wouldn't have mattered. My pained tails are already spinning and cushioning the fall from the second floor window.

Dad's voice roars down at me from the window.

"HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!"

Probably.

From there I just follow my instincts. I run.

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	10. The complication

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**10. The complication. **

[AMY, Sean Catlett]

The last couple of days have been grueling. Yes, past tense. It works. 

Two days after the phone was pulled out, I finally plugged it back in. I expected it to immediately start ringing, waking up Rouge and throwing another bout of frightened screams. 

Silence. Relief flowed over me, and I tried to get a hold of Tails. To apologize, or something. 

But he didn't answer. I hate leaving messages, but I do it anyway, trying to sound as polite as possible. 

I still haven't called the police. 

Rouge had long ceased going to work, so I was pretty much scrounging what I could from what little we had saved, from what little people are willing to donate or throw away. I did manage to buy some canned food. We both ate them with reusable plastic spoon-fork things. Sporks, I think they're called. 

Ha. Sporks.

I bought some blankets and a first-aid kit to take care of Rouge's needs. The powder burn from the gun is pretty nasty, but we didn't and don't talk about it. It's silent consent that neither of us go to a hospital. 

Our apartment gradually turned into a bomb shelter. The windows were blocked with furniture and ripped up floorboards from one of the closets. The doorknob had an empty bottle of Mickey's 24 Voltage sitting on top of it, something I had seen in a movie once and thought was quite creative. If someone tried to sneak in, we would hear the bottle crack on the hard entrance and we'd fight or die or whatever happened next. It's a control thing, anyway. 

Look, it's not being paranoid if you're right. You're not crazy if everyone else is too. 

Four days locked down in the house. And the phone still didn't ring. Everything was quiet, so quiet, save for our chewing or snoring. 

About here. Yes, about here, this is where Rouge taught me how to use a gun.  

________________________

Back to the present, the gun cold against the skin on my back. Slightly comforting. It's been a few days since the phone rang last. The horizon is starting to look clear again, free of stormy skies, and I decide to try and call Tails again. 

I pick up the phone from the floor, watching the door across from me. I start to dial. I finish, and I wait. 

Click, click, click. 

He picks up on the forth ring. 

He sounds distracted, not like himself, so I verify him anyway. 

"Tails?"

"Oh… Hi, Amy. What do you want?"

What indeed. 

How do I ask for help this time? What is the nicest way to mooch off of someone?

I decide to take it slow. He'll understand if I-

"Look," I start, "this is . . ." I hear angry pounding at the door, and I see the doorknob start to turn violently from left to right. "Oh my god, hold on."

I  drop the phone and I dive over the couch, hitting the hard entrance floor and I barely catch the bottle heading towards the floor. The knob still turns above me and I stare at my reflection in the bottle in disbelief. 

Wow. Bad ass.

I stand up, unlock the knob, click the bolt, and crack the door, leaving the chain on. 

It's exactly who I thought it would be. It's the superintendent, the one I saw pulling at himself a week and a half prior. You remember, I'm sure. 

"Rent," he puts simply, his face thin and his eyes beady. 

He eyes me up and down, seeing my black skirt halfway pulled down, the empty bottle of Voltage in my hand, and when he reaches my eyes again, he stares with newfound contempt. 

"Can't you come back later? I'm a little busy . . ." Probably thinks we're fucking or something. 

He points his finger down into my face, through the crack of the door, almost reaching my right eye. "Listen up, you little fucking dike. You are about this close -" he doesn't move his hand back, and makes a length with his index and thumb, a length that is about the size of his dick- "from being kicked right out on the fucking street. And this time that whore of a mother of yours can't help you." He continues pointing, trying to push in the door some more.

He doesn't realize that one grows a hefty set of balls in life threatening situations. 

I push the door back, and he's very surprised all of a sudden. His finger gets slammed a little by the door. Beauty. 

"Come back later-" I lean down to put the bottle on the floor. "-or else, I will have to do something-" I reach behind my back and I pull the heavy revolver out. "-I will later regret." I cock the hammer, the click staring him in the eyes. "Fuck off."  

Despite most of his expression covered by hatred, there is a flicker of fear before it dies out, gone in obscurity. "Don't threaten me, you ugly ball of pink pussy." He walks off, stomping down the hallway. 

I door closes. I slip the heavy hunk of metal in my skirt again, the feel of it cold against my ass, and I put the bottle back on the doorknob. 

When I pick up the phone, I verify again.

"Tails?"

"Yeah?"

"Where the hell have you been? I left you a message."

"Funeral, then… went to . . . get some food, then I came home. I think my parents deleted it."

His parents have a thing about certain individuals who go down women, although his dad probably does the same thing to his mom. Intolerating assholes deleted my message. 

Oh well. Doesn't matter now. 

Fuck being subtle. "Look, how fast can you get here?"  

"And why should I go over there at this hour?"

Sarcasm again, the light humor. Typical. Good thing I know how to deal with it. 

"Answer the goddamn question, Miles." Score. Using his real name is a wild card. 

"On foot about two hours…"

Swish. Point. 

But . . . that's cutting it too long. 

"Any choices?" I hope for a bus route he could take, or at least a friend that could give him a ride . . . 

But no. The answer he gives me is something that I do not expect at all. 

"You have GOT to be kidding me!"

"Hey, either that, or I walk, and two hours later I see Rouge's dead corpse."

"Can't you . . . . I don't know . . . fly or something?"

"They still sprained."

Excellent. Really. "Is this your way of impressing me?!"

"Take it or leave it."

Sigh. Shit, this is gonna be weird. "Fine, whatever, I guess it's fine. Just, I need . ."

There is a crackling, or a click I hear on my line. The same from earlier. 

Oh fuck. 

Oh fuck. 

Eyes dilate, breath catches, muscles tighten. 

"What was that?" comes out before I can stop myself. Mistake, mistake, mistake. 

My eyes move wildly around the apartment, and they check the doorknob to see if the bottle is still there. It's almost too dark to see.

"Probably just your breath on the receiver. Go on."

Holy shit. 

He heard it too. 

Now, this COULD be my breath on the receiver; it COULD be the connection being messed with; or, it COULD be them, tapping the line, listening to our conversation. 

Play dumb, play dumb. Don't let them know. 

"Look, I need you here as soon as possible." My voice is calm but shaking like a leaf. "This is-" 

Rouge starts crying from her bedroom. "Oh shit, hold on again." I set the phone down on the floor, and my hand goes unconsciously to the gun at my back. 

I walk quickly into the dark room, and I see Rouge crying on her bed, the bandage wrapped around her head now fallen to the floor. The wound is an ugly mark of a red, twisting river.  

I lean down next to her, my hand still on the gun. I comfort her, my other hand flowing through her greasy, untended hair. She's still crying.

"They're coming!" She screams out suddenly, hugging herself tighter. 

I don't say anything . . . because I already know. 

"Look . . . Mom . . ." Her eyes meet mine. I show her the gun. "Take it back. If they're after you, then you'd better look after it." She eyes the gun, then me, then the gun again. This could be a bad idea. "I trust you enough that you wont try to hurt yourself again. Even so, don't do it. I love you too much." I stroke her hair as the tears well up in Rouge's eyes, and she kisses my hand, takes the gun back. She smiles, so weak, so weak. 

I run back to the phone, feeling somewhat relieved. Well, that is, until I hear Tails' voice. 

"And just why should I help you?"

"What?!"

"I went to you when my cousin got killed, and you just blew me off. And it's seven effin' thirty, you want me to go traipsing into the city this time of evening?"

That's right. The revenge thing. 

Did that . . . happen?

"Look, I don't have time for your fucking pity games, okay?! If you're going to act like a little baby, I'll handle this myself, but if you DO get off your ass and come, bring a weapon." 

And I hang up the phone. 

What the hell is wrong with me? 

________________________

Time passes with the speed of a slug. The creature, not the projectile. 

My hand falls to my back to find that the gun isn't there. Shit. 

It was kind of comforting to have that hunk of metal connected to me. Even if I don't know how to fire it, at least I can maybe scare someone off . . . . or get myself shot. 

I go in the kitchen and I grab a butcher knife. I slip it end down, sharp end pointing to my left so it pulls away when I yank it out, down the back of my skirt. It's cold, but not as cold or as heavy or as comforting as the gun.

It's 10 minutes before I hear the slight roar of motors. They get closer, and I sit comfortably on the couch, thinking about how I'm going to convince him to help us. I'm worried because I didn't tell him quite the entire story . . . 

The motorcycle outside stops, right below my window. I don't get up to check. If he's trying to get a chance with me he's going to have to try a little bit harder. 

. . . That's really stupid. 

Suddenly, I remember the noise, and I rush to Rouge's room. 

I don't hear her screaming over the sound of the engines, and when I open to door to the bedroom, she's thrashing around on her bed, clutching the gun to her chest, barrel pointed at herself. By accident I'm sure. 

I jump down next to her, falling in front, my hands gripping the gun. I can feel her heart beat beneath my hands. 

"Please," I tell her, her haggard breaths falling on my face. There are tears forming in her eyes. "We're safe now. We're safe. Don't worry, I'm ok. We're both ok. It's help. Someone's helping us." Babble. Hardly poetry, but she seems to get the point, because she nods and gives me a peck on the check. The gun slowly lowers. She composes herself. For now. 

I've never seen her this bad, through all the hardships we've suffered through. The amount of pain she must be going through, and the only thing to keep me from crying is to think that at least she has hell to look forward to. 

"Is this what you called me here for?"

Tails. 

Already inside.

"Shit!"

I walk swiftly over to him, across the length of the apartment, past the center room and into my bedroom. I close the door and stare angrily at him. We're the furthest from Rouge that we can be before leaving her entirely.

"How did you get up here so fast?"

He stares at me for a sec, then shrugs. Over to my right, the fire escape window, which used to be barricaded before he got here, is broken open, the boards pulled off. Debris all over my floor. 

I groan.

"What?" Acting as though he did nothing wrong. "Shit, it's dark. Why are all the drapes closed in there?" He motions to the center room.

If we start fighting, then this could take all night.

"Never mind." I started picking up the broken fragments of wood. "I'm glad you're here."

"Glad to know I'm appreciated."

I turn on my light, squinting in the harshness of it, adjusting. Tails is dressed in his normal street clothes, a hat on backwards, and he has sunglasses on even though it was late at night. It's so obvious that he's feigning ease. Faux relaxation. 

"Why are you so tense?" I ask him, slightly concerned but worried about the answer he'll give me. 

"Look . . . . Amy, if this is some sort of fucked up way for you to get me to relax so I fuck you, I'm sorry to disappoint."

"Why, are you gay too?"

"And I see the place looks just as perfect as ever," Tails says, walking around my room, picking up my glass snow-globe that I bought at the beach. I pretend like I care.

"Put that down!" I say, clumsily setting it back on the dresser. I'm a few feet away from him, and after setting it down, I look back and he's staring at me, squinting. 

"Just . . . . . it was a gift." I can feel him staring at me like I'm the oddest thing in the world, like I'm a green slug, the creature, not the projectile. I just start to pick up the glass on the floor. 

Change the subject.

"Where'd you get a motorcycle, anyway?"

"A friend of mine," he says, not elaborating.

"Okay . . . . . don't you think that it's a little, oh I don't know, strange to be riding something like that?"

"What, you've never seen an underage adolescent driving a motorcycle at about two in the morning?"

"No."

He's smiling. "You don't get out much, do you?"

I can't help but laugh. The tension of the last couple of days had been getting to me. I hadn't relaxed in a long time, getting the feeling that I was actually starting to go insane, and suddenly, it's all released. I laugh for a long time before I finally stop, embarrassed. When I look back up at Tails, he's still smiling, even chuckling a little.

"God, I'm so glad you're here . . ." I say, meaning it more this time. "Thanks for doing this, Tails. I'm losing my mind here."

At first, he smiles earnestly, that faux ease fading into honest comfort, but his façade comes back up like a brick wall, and his lips go tight and his expression becomes a mask. I frown. 

"What's wrong now?" I say, a little irritated.

"Nothing." He shrugs, walking over to the window again and picking something up.

"Wait . . . . . is that a bat?!" 

"No, it's a knife. Of course it's a fucking bat, Amy!"

"What are you thinking?!" 

No, no NO. NOT THIS! NOT NOW!

"You told me to bring something," He says, handling the bat carefully, like it's going to go off any second or some shit.

"I told you to bring a weapon, Tails! Not something used as a secondary dildo! I was fucking serious! I wasn't joking! 

"Well, what the fuck was I supposed to get, then?!" He yells loud enough for me to jump, but I'm too pissed off to be scared. Or vice versa. 

"I don't know, use that big fucking brain of yours and INVENT something! Certainly something better than your mom's stress reliever. No wonder you get the shit beat out of you." 

Whoops. 

Uh oh.

His eyes go wide, and he spins his entire body around, swinging the bat full force at the broken window. The hard wood goes straight through the glass, shattering what's left of the pane, littering the floor with pieces no bigger than a fingernail. Then he throws the bat across the room, smacking the far end of the wall, leaving a dent. Tails storms up to me and screams in my face, "Will THAT fuck someone up, you cunt-sucking bitch?!!" 

I wipe the spit off my face as he leaves, muttering to himself, out into the living room, towards the door. I catch the words "ungrateful" and "nothing right" before he unlocks the door and storms down the hall. Rouge starts to scream again. The bottle shatters on the floor. 

I did it again. 

I fucked it up. 

With Rouge screaming again and our last hope quickly exiting, I saunter to Rouge's room.

I jump next to her and hug her. I wrap myself around her fetal, shivering form. She's drenched with sweat and as tense as a vice. 

"Shhhh, shhhhhh, it's ok, it's ok . . . . . ." It's more for myself than for her. 

Suddenly, her hands come up and she grabs my face. Her eyes snap open, and she whispers, so quietly that I almost don't hear her, but the words dagger into me and make my heart stop.

"They're inside . . . . they're inside . . . ."

Fast backward. _"What?"_ How did Tails get in? _"It's dark."_ He didn't know the windows were boarded up. _"Why are all the drapes closed in here?"_ In fact, he thought that they were only boarded up. _"Never mind."_ Tails would never break in like he did. 

Holy shit. 

Someone else broke in. 

My eyes search the room frantically, and they find something that I wish I didn't notice. 

The closet door. 

It's open. The crack is about one inch, but I remember it distinctly being closed last time I checked. 

I don't breathe until two seconds later, when the phone rings, and I start screaming. 

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	11. Trickedout ride

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**11. Tricked-out ride.**

[TAILS, David Macintyre]

"Fuck you too."

I'm still insulting her as I bitterly stomp out of the apartment, swiftly descending the stone steps. At least I put her in her place, I think. Scaring Amy Rose is like shooting fish in a barrel. Pun intended.

Now, though, I am in a pretty difficult position to be in at… 12:47 am. Damn. I've been out longer than I thought.

See, I had expected that Amy would need me to stay and protect her all night. It wouldn't be comfortable, I'll admit that, but it was what I had partly based my actions on back at home; the assumption that I wouldn't be returning any time soon.

So now what the fuck do I do? I can't go back, unless there are some 'fur is murder' signs my parents keep around the house somewhere I don't know about. I'm a hobo for the night. And around this part of town that isn't safe.

Hell. Wouldn't be safe anywhere, unless I hauled my ass up to the yuppie part of town, but that's at least an hour from here.

So now what? I can't think of anywhere to stay. I lean exhausted against the metal banister of the stone staircase. I glance at it and check for rust. None. This place sure looks a lot better maintained than is evident from the insides of the apartments.

Hey, pool… doesn't seem to be anything wrong with it…

…

…Oh.

Anyway.

There are more important things to be thinking about. I just realized I was thinking of squatting here. Stupid me.

Something strikes me. Inspiration, I think.

I must act on this.

I trot over to the purple-with-orange-highlights Typhoon motorcycle and climb on, knocking the kickstand back up. I try to remember where I would have seen a convenient payphone.

With a somewhat smaller amount of butterflies in my stomach than last time, I turn the keys and twist the handle, kicking the bike into gear. I rev it loud enough to pretend I don't hear Amy screaming from upstairs as I pull out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

I should help…

…

Nah.

It didn't take long to maneuver out of the lot. Admittedly I still have to get the hang of this thing, but my mind is still on piloting it since I didn't hang around at Amy's long. Always good to get onto things fresh.

Out.

I cut loose on the empty suburbian streets, taking advantage of the 1 am traffic, or lack thereof. As my mind subconsciously picks up on Sonic's drug issues again…

…

The bike slows down.

…

I..

KNEW something bad would happen.

See, I knew at some point he was going to fuck up. It was only matter of when, not if. 

I kept trying to warn him about it. Don't go get high, Sonic. It's fucking with your head, Sonic. Your intelligence is slipping, Sonic. You're going to screw up, Sonic. You've already started to, Sonic. But almost every day he'd take a 'constitutional' and come back either holding a handful of tinnies or stoned off his ass. He tried to get me on it once. I refused.

Eventually it got him fired from his job; he was a rental clerk at the skate park, if I remember correctly. Not much of a career to begin with, anyway, but it's not like he had time to get qualifications. By then I was too exasperated to bother anymore.

Still wouldn't quit though.

I think you know what happened next.

Can't think about now. There's the payphone.

Not having any (small) change on hand, I risk calling collect. I punch in the number and wait.

"Bloop, bloooop…"

"Bloop, bloooop…"

"Bloop, bloooop…"

Yadda yadda… automated message… You're quite welcome, the number is…

"Please say your name at the sound of the tone…"

I hear the phone ring again. Kays answers it. I expect a tired, annoyed, sloppy voice.

"Kays Prower."

Instead I get an alert, awake, caffeine-enriched reply after just one ring. What the fuck is he doing up at this hour?"

"Hello, Mr. Prower. You are receiving a collect call from—"

Beep.

"KAYS! TAKE THE FUCKING CALL OR I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL—"

Beep. He talks to himself.

"Jesus, Tails, you're up late…"

"Will you accept the charges."

"Hmm, lemme think about it…"

"KAYS! FUCK SAKE, TAKE IT, TAKE IT, TAKEITTAKEITTAKEITTAKEIT!" I yell, even though I know he can't hear me.

"Um, n… okay. Yes."

God… I just pray the machine didn't interpret the 'n…okay' as no.

The machine deactivates, and I am left to yell at Kays.

"What is your fucking problem?!"

"Hey, you'd have called back anyway."

"Yeah, and what if some guy with a gun was chasing me down and I NEEDED you to answer?"

"Hypothetically?"

Damn. He sussed me.

"Yes."

"I dunno."

God. Kays, being his typical fucking self. I pull the door of the booth tighter and continue.

"Kays, I need help."

"What is the problem, my young Padawan learner?" he says, probably still moving his mouth to imitate bad dubbing.

"I can't go home tonight, or my parents are going to cook me alive. I thought I was staying at Amy's but… uh, that didn't work out."

"Oooh, saucy."

"Shut the fuck up, Kays."

"And?"

"And I need to stay at your place, dumbshit."

Long pause.

"Okay, no questions asked. Do you know my address?"

"…Uh…" I feel like an idiot.

"Forgot, hm?"

"Um, yeah, sort of." He doesn't need to rub it in.

He tells me his address. I quickly write it down.

"Okay, thank you."

"Anything else?"

Hm.

My conversation with Sonic pops into mind.

Should I tell him? Should I ask for help?

…

"Your computer."

"What about it?"

"I need it tonight. Something VERY important. Will you be using it?" I suspect he is, because he's up this late.

"No… but neither will you."

"What? Why?"

"It's busted. I meant to take it in today, but I was too lazy."

Hmph. Kays, his usual self, of course.

"Get your laptop, or something," he says.

"What, and risk being the Merchant of Venice?!"

"…what the fuck?"

"Pound of flesh… the bond."

"You KNOW I don't listen in class."

"Fine, whatever."

Wait.

  
"Wait. If your comp isn't working, what are you doing up so late?"

Short pause.

"Do I have to make her leave?"

Short pause on my part.

"Bullshit, Kays."

"None of your business. Now, go get your laptop."

"But—"

"On your bike, son." With that, he hangs up.

But I'm still talking. Mostly four letter words, plus the suffixes.

…

Well, shit.

"What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

I heave a great sigh and scold myself after realizing I actually expected someone to answer. I put the phone back on the hook.

Now what?

…

"…"

There's not much I can do, I guess.

I exit the phone booth and boot the kickstand up on the Typhoon. I climb on and check the address on the paper.

Watch, this is the cool part.

I push a button above the dashboard and every meter and gauge on it spins around. A panel near the base of the seat slides down underneath the frame and reveals a small screen. The speedometer becomes a smaller, circular screen, the fuel gauge a keypad. The mileage counter spins and clicks to read 0 in all columns.

"GPS."

Almost instantly the screens light up. The large one loads a full topographical map of Station Square, with a red dot to indicate my location. The former speedometer becomes a map of a twenty foot radius around me.

"Registered individual."

A short list—two names—of my other known GPS contacts appears.

"Kays Prower."

Searching…

I hope, pray he has his activated, or this could get a lot more difficult than it really needs to be. But since his comp is broken, it's doubtful.

"Not found. Could not establish link."

"Damn it." Probably tinkering with it again, left it on the ground of his apartment somewhere… asshole. He isn't much help tonight.

So now I have to search for the nearest information kiosk to his street. This is going to be a long night.

"Find info stands at—"

Immediately a number of blue dots with 'i' in the middle appear on the map.

"NEAREST or on Bedford avenue."

Three appear. Good.

I push one, and a box with all the necessary information appears. Street name, dista—

Groan.

"BEDford, not Redford!"

Nothing happens.

"Display I-kiosks nearest or on BEDFORD avenue!!"

One hit. I push it. The former mileage meter shows coordinates, the box shows address and distance. Perfect. 112 Bedford avenue. Kays is at 75, or so he says.

"Display shortest and safest routes."

One green line connects the red and blue dots.

"No, dammit, display shortest and safest as separate routes!"

I hate this fucking thing!

Two lines connect me and the dot. A blue one that identifies it as safest according to police zoning, and a shorter red one.

"Thank you! Set compass program to route A."

A small arrow appears above the red dot and points to the blue one, showing the front of the bike's direction.

"Secondary compass."

The arrow appears around the dot on the circular screen.

"Close primary—"

Before I can finish, everything has already signed off.

"Damn it!"

I repeat the entire process over again, this time careful to say 'Primary GPS, close." The main screen turns off. I manually shut the panel over it, not wanting to risk saying 'close' again.

FINALLY ready, I rev up the engine and drive off into the dark, swearing to myself. Useless fucking thing…

Got the whole night ahead of me…

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	12. The bottom

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**12. The bottom. **

[AMY, Sean Catlett]

There's nothing to eat here, I already know, but I crawl across Rouge's floor to the mini-fridge in the corner. I grasp the rusted handle to the shit-brown door and I open. A slight sucking sound, which doesn't sound like freshness, but more like someone farted. Lukewarm air pours out and hits me in on my legs. The stubble doesn't rise, but recoils. All it does is make the night even more putrid and sultry. 

It's been four hours and neither of us have looked in the closet. We tell each other that they would have made their move already, but we're most likely only scared shitless of finding out that we're wrong. 

And, guess what, surprise, surprise, there is a carton of eggs in the back of the fridge. It's long past the overdue date, but a lesson I learned a long time ago was that you can only take what you can get. 

Sonic . . . . .

I haven't gone out for supplies, for comforts of living, for a-lot-of-shit-that-we-don't-need mixed with some-shit-that-we-do, because of an unspoken law that has been drifting around the apartment. 

They are after us, and if we separate, they win. Divide, they conquer. With Rouge being bed-ridden and 99% insane, I do not think some fresh air will make any bit of difference. 

Not even the scent of vegetarian meat cooking on a slab of rendered liposuction fat could clear the clouds of this dark day. 

Flowers don't bloom in overcast.

I pick up the carton of recycled everything from the grating in the very back and weight it in my hand. It feels light. Empty. 

Me and Rouge, we must look like a couple of Union Street hookers. You know the kind. Tousled hair from a previous, non-metaphorical job. Legs out of coordination because of soreness. Clothes bargain-basement and dirty and stained and loose and two sizes too small. Makeup running down. Arms bent. Lips chapped. Eyes dead. If we were to go out, we wouldn't last long, that's for sure, and then the FBI would have to protect us instead. 

Sonic . . . . .

The carton doesn't snap open, but reluctantly peels open. For some reason I do it extra careful, but I still end up ripping it. Something sticky covers the lining of the inside. Membrane sticks the tops and bottoms of the carton together. 

One egg. 

It suddenly hits me that this is probably the last thing that either of us will ever eat again. Chances are that either they will come for us, or we will starve to death. I don't think anyone on the outside would want to help us. 

I look over at Rouge. Her eyes are open and she's staring at me. She's mouthing the words: "You can have it" over and over again, as if it were a catchy song. She stops and goes back to sleep. 

"Did you know:  That all eggs are processed with chemicals? That's right! The yolk you are eating is really a mix of food coloring and "organic substances" of the future!"

I saw an infomercial that told the history of eggs, and how they used to actually pay people who were able to come in and lay them. 

Every hard shell was a wasted life. An empty vessel never destined to be fulfilled with the other part of it. Without the seeds, there is no life. And it's sent off to be part of the collective. 

"Real" eggs were outlawed shortly after, when the ARS came in and terror-bombed the companies with propaganda and extreme picketing. Through the money paid by advertising, research was funded for an egg substitute. 

I was about five years old when all of this happened. Before then, I remember eating "real" eggs, and I can't help but think if what's happening to me now is just the "chickens coming home to roost", if the expression is forgiven.

One egg.

That is all that is needed.

Sonic . . . . .

I can't stop staring at the egg in my hands. It's discolored slightly from age, but the pure whiteness of it remains intact. It looks so real . . . . . . . . as good as the real thing. 

If I cook it now, this will be the first time I have tried the substitute. The next-best-thing. The take-what-you-can-only-have. How did I not notice these the entire time Rouge had them here?

And out of all the things that are worth risking, it is worth the risk stand in front of the window. It is worth the risk to walk past the closet to the door. It is worth the risk to travel along the darkness in the apartment to the kitchen to cook the last egg I will ever eat again. All of this is worth the risk of getting shot in the head by a sniper's bullet. Or whatever. 

The eggs also feels empty in my hand, but that is not really all that strange. In a sense, they are really empty, and that is probably how they will taste. Nothing, I guess, compares to the taste of a failed life in your mouth. But I wouldn't know. 

Sonic . . . . .

The kitchen is really only two cupboards and a Formica table, but I call it a kitchen because of the hotplate that sits in the center. The heat gauge on the side goes up to 10, which translates to roughly 450 degrees of heat. Depends on what method of measurement one is using, but I have the intention of turning it all that way up. 10 is easier to say anyway. 

A roach goes splat under my feet. White, gummy juice squirts out of it across the floor and my bare feet, but it keeps wriggling, still alive. 

"Did you know:  Roaches can live anywhere from nine to ten days with their heads cut off? It's only after the lack of nutrients do they finally die."

I'd hate to live that long without a brain. I'd hate to live period. But at least there's darkness to look forward to. 

We cannot afford pans here. There is only one set of dishes, and I'm pretty sure that they're all soaking in the sink. From two weeks ago. Not imagining what's alive in there now.

I admire the egg in my hand. Even the lack of light has no match for the brilliance of the shell, the perfect roundness of it. So what if it's not circular? It's still a baby to me . . . . . 

Sonic . . . . . 

I don't have the heart to break this one. 

One seed is all that's needed. One seed could have saved them all. One seed could have prevented substitution. 

I place the egg on the cold hotplate, not reaching for the knob on the side. The dial stays at absolute zero. 

The roach under my feet keeps struggling. Living. Fighting for something it doesn't know it's a part of. Lucky little shit.

SonicsonicsonicsonicsonicshitshitshitshitshitI'MPREGNANT! There, I fucking said it. There are too many infomercials on the TV at the other apartment for my own good. It's also too bad that there are too many thin slivers of metal in the world. Stereotypically, clothes hangers. 

But.

You take what you can get.

Last week, I chose a dip-stick for engine fluid that I found on the sidewalk outside of a vehicle repair shop. It was stained and slathered with dried oil. The symbolism almost killed me. 

Later that night. 

I took down the bathroom mirror hanging above the toilet and set it up against the door. I locked myself in, just in case Rouge woke up. It was two in the morning. The florescent light bulb was flickering its last amounts of light. I sat on the toilet, stripped down and spread open. The flashes are adequate enough to get well illuminated glances at my insides. 

This is what the boys want from me. 

This is how I look to the ones licking me. 

This is how I look to doctors. 

This how I look to myself in the bathroom fucking mirror. 

This is how I look to . . . . . 

Sonic . . . . . 

The oiled dipstick in my left hand, my right opened into a palm, spread fingers, I take a deep breath. 

I turn the dial to the maximum setting. 

The light flickers on. 

The heat starts to slowly rise. 

I put more weight on my foot. 

The oiled stick is raised. 

The roach squirms some more. 

The light turns off. 

The truth is, what I really want is just some acceptance. What I really want is to be loved. I don't want a fucking hand out. I don't want a pity-rape. I don't want someone's excess baggage. 

What I want . . . . . 

Sonic . . . . .

What I want doesn't matter. 

My palm closes. 

The metal drops to the floor. 

I give up. 

My foot lifts.

The egg smashes because I get tired of waiting. 

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	13. Not what I had in mind

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**13. Not what I had in mind.**

[TAILS, David Macintyre] 

I think this is what is generally known as the cruel twist of fate.

I had to take that motherfucking detour, didn't I?

I figured maybe mom and dad would've gone to bed. Even if dad found my laptop, which is likely, he'd have left it in his study when he went to bed. Maybe.

But of course, fate or bad luck just HAD to intervene, particularly when I rounded the corner to my house.

NOT a pleasant sight…

God…

This is…

Awful…

I refuse to let the pang of fear make me stop my bike, making it sway lazily due to my lack of control. My eyes are fixed on the house. MY house.

This…

Who…

Did this…

"Oh, my god."

My house is surrounded by squad cars and armed officers. A fire brigade is on standby, as is an ambulance and several paramedics.

And…

Holy…

Is that a fucking G.U.N.?!

This is…

Somebody attacked my family!

Somebody SERIOUS!

"What the hell happened here?!"

Still having the sense to know I'm too young to drive, I hide the motorcycle behind a tree. I never DID get the guts to make a fake ID. I sprint to the nearest cop and grab at his shoulder.

"Hey! What the fuck happened here?!"

His rotund face looks down in surprise, nose reddish and running. He runs a forearm across it and sniffs.

"Stay back from the line, kid," he says. "Go home. What are you doing out so late?"

"What happened?!"

"Stand away, brat!" His round, clean shaven face goes red, his nose probably redder. His brow furrows.

"I fucking *live* here!"

Instantly his attitude changes.

"You better not be lying."

"Do I act like the kind of person who would give a crap if I was?"

He thinks it over.

"Well…"

Thank god for incompetent cops. Or something like that.

"We're not sure," he begins. "But we think someone or something broke in and tore the place apart. That much is obvious. We've got a guy talking to the father upstairs, so we'll know some more pretty soon…"

"When did this happen?"

"I dunno, maybe a couple hours ago…"

Oh god…

Right after I left.

RIGHT AFTER I LEFT…

"Ooh, that doesn't look too good…"

I look up from the ground at hearing this and watch the door, as does the cop.

"What?"

"That," he points.

Two paramedics carry mom out on a stretcher. Her face is cut, her hands blood soaked. She's unconscious.

Next comes…

What the… good god…

My five year old sister, Alia.

…dead?

Is she DEAD?!

…

…

…Can't worry now… no…

Now Tyler walks out of the house, limping with one arm hanging at his side. The other is supporting Miranda, who is clamped around his neck and crying into his shoulder. He isn't even clutching the big red hole in his muscle shirt. That looks like a mortal wound to me.

His head is bleeding, his lip cut, and his eye black.

He hands Miranda to one of the medics he just pushed from his body, and collapses.

"SHIT!"

Your reaction right now would likely be the same as mine. Ignoring the police line tape and protests of the officer and rushing to his side. But then, I don't know you, and I don't think you know me.

He rolls over weakly. Something in my mind tells me not to help him over. I don't.

This is pathetic.

He looks up at me while the medics come to his side and start to lift him. I expect him to smile softly or something, but he just frowns.

Then he talks.

"Why… weren't you… here?" he chokes out.

"Tyler, what the hell happened?!"

He doesn't answer. The medics hoist him toward the ambulance, despite his stubborn, but feeble, resistance.

What the…

The way he asked me that makes it sound as if I knew this was going to happen. Like I left so they would die and not me.

Well…

Fuck him. He can burn for all I care.

But…

What…

Happened…?

…

…….

You know what, since I'm here, I may as well get what I came for. Laptop.

I head around back. There's no way I'm going in the front door. I'll get caught. Maybe I should go in through my room window, or something.

Let's see…

The back of the house is no better. Jesus, look at all the cops. And the damage…

The back door is no more than a pile of splinters, and there are enough cops to bring down Hannibal Lecter back here. One of them seems to be trying to get a G.U.N. pilot to haul his giant metal ass away. I'm not sure, but I think the G.U.N. are pretty freelance when it comes to stuff like this. Maybe he's interfering.

Fuck sakes, how I am supposed to get in?

I duck back past the police line before anyone sees me long enough to care. I look for a different way in.

…

I see one. But I'm not gonna like it.

I head for a nearby tree. I gingerly climb up, looking for a high branch.

Damn.

The highest one is too loose. I'll have to go for the lower one. This is gonna hurt…

I check the height. About the same as the second story window.

I breathe heavily.

"Tally ho…"

Leap.

I wince and yelp, spinning my tails as quickly and frantically as I can. My body sinks several feet as I cross the air at an above average speed. The side of the house rushes to meet me—specifically, a closed window.

"Aaagh!"

I give it everything I have and force by tails to lift me up a few more feet. My arms swing upwards and my fingers barely lock onto the gutter of the roof. I quickly pull myself up, forcing another agonizing propulsion upwards. Finally I flop onto the roof, panting hard.

…

That was the dumbest thing I've ever done in my life.

While I have a moment, I may as well explain something. No doubt you'd think that I could've intentionally crashed through the window and finished inside completely unscathed, correct?

Well, you know what? The thing you see in the movies is breakaway glass. It can't cut you. I have a friend named David who accidentally shattered the glass pane in a door when he hit the wooden part of it, and the glass flew over a foot and clipped him in the arm. He was in a bandage for eight weeks, and left with a pink, eye shaped scar on his left forearm for the rest of his life.

So let's see. Put up with ass pain for… probably an hour, or end up looking like the guy in that Tom Cruise movie for the rest of my life. Feh. It isn't a difficult decision, even at… however fast I was going.

Right, what was I doing again?

I stand up semi-easily, used to heights, balancing myself. I look down and check for anybody who saw me.

No cops are crowding nearby or anything, moreso than usual, so I think I'm safe. I make my way to the hallway skylight. I slide it open, noticing my surprise that it isn't shattered into countless pieces. I climb down and let my knees bend on landing, standing up again.

I look around.

Dear God.

The house is a fucking war zone. Mom's favorite vase is lying in hell-shaped pieces all over the floor, along with the skylight glass, torn clothing, and blood. The walls are scorched and dented and bloody.

This is…

Is…

…

"…"

Laptop… where.

I check my room, dodging loose ceiling and stepping over other broken objects. There's nobody in this part of the house.

…Ouch…

I won't bore you with details. Use your imagination.

However, there doesn't seem to be a battered, useless pile of computer parts anywhere.

Where is it…

I creep my way around the house, at first careful not to be seen, but then realizing that there's nobody inside at this moment. I check each possible location with little patience or time for a total strip search; I KNOW there will be cops around any moment.

Parents' bedroom… no.

Parents' closet… no.

Family office… no.

Living room… no.

Rec room… no.

Guest room… no.

Tyler's room… no.

Miranda's room… no.

Alia's room… no.

…no.

I begin checking more out of the ordinary places.

Bathroom… no.

Attic… no.

Basement… no.

Laundry room…no!

KITCHEN…NO!

FRIDGE…NO!

MEDICINE CABINET…NO!

…

DAMN IT!

…

Shit…

Look, obviously there's only one possible place it can be. I knew it was going to be there from the start, but…

I wish I didn't have to look there.

Dad's study. And I haven't seen him leave or be carried out on a stretcher yet.

Eesh…

  
Oh well… only one way to find out.

…This room is different from the last time I was here.

See, dad's a perfectionist.

He kept a PERFECT study, all the freaking time. All his books were lined up to ruler-straight degree on the shelves, his stationary and supplies always flawlessly arranged on his desk, which was always spotless without fail. The computer desk and TV were always in perfect positioning so he could see the TV while he worked. He always let hell out on us if we, God forbid, went inside, let alone screwed up his seamless workspace.

Now, multiply, or rather divide that by a couple of rampaging attackers so serious that the G.U.N. gets involved.

See what I mean?

It's almost funny…

Heh, heh, heh…

…

Ha, ha…

…

…

What am I saying?!

It IS funny!

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

I resist the need to laugh out loud, but I can't restrain a small chuckle at least.

Good thing, too…

Because when I creak the door open a little more and look in further, I see dad—talking to who is obviously a Fed. FBI, dumbass.

Fuck, NOW I remember! The cop told me they were up here!

I decide against slapping my forehead, instead writing a proverbial rain check and settling for a frustrated grimace. I put it in my proverbial pocket with the laugh I owe myself.

Okay, my dad is talking to the FBI. I have to listen to this…

"And they just… they just started tearing the place apart…

Dad is broken.

He's sitting at his desk, which is surprisingly still intact, as usual, clutching the sides of his head with elbows on the table top.

"What happened then, sir?"

"Well… I remember one of them came upstairs and knocked down the door to the hallway at the landing, that was the first real sign for me that something was going on… I got up to have a look and heard some loud noises, mostly stuff being thrown around."

"I see…"

"Then one of them sort of… came back out the hallway door and rushed up here, my door was already open, and I saw it come up. I was still at my desk, and I tried to get out of the way, but I was too scared…"

There's a pause, and he starts again.

"It started knocking things over, like it was looking for something, and I tried yelling at it to leave, but it wouldn't listen… then Tyler came in running, and he was carrying a weight in both hands. He ran up and hit it."

"Resourceful boy."

"It fought back, I think, but I couldn't really tell, and he ended up hitting it into a few things. I watched. He eventually got it to leave and knocked it down the first flight of stairs. Then he chased it and pinned it to the wall, and started hitting it again… He just kept going…"

"Could you tell if it was fighting back yet?"

Dad pauses for a moment, massaging his temples.

"No."

"Okay, continue."

I keep listening, and piece together a rough recollection of what happened.

Tyler kept working on the first one, but shortly another one came out from the hallway, more or less the same size but a little more solid. He shifted his attention to it and hit it once, but nothing of any significance happened. It knocked him against the wall and he fell to the ground. He didn't move after that.

Next the attackers split up again, one went downstairs, the other back into the hallway. Dad still wouldn't leave the study for fear of dying. There were screams, and Tyler tried to get up again.

He managed to, and staggered through the hallway. More children's screams. He came out a minute or so later hitting the bigger one, which knocked him back again. He had Miranda clinging to his back like a piggyback ride, but she was screaming as loud as she could. Eventually the intruder slammed its right arm into his stomach, and he stopped moving, choking. It pulled back and he had a massive wound there, bleeding. He fell forward to the ground and the thing stopped. Then it picked up Miranda…

It looked her over, then put her back down, shaking what appeared to be its head. It went back out.

Shortly afterwards mom came running out, carrying Alia, screaming. Both of them followed. The black one knocked her across the head and she fell down onto the stairs leading to the study, with a bleeding cut or bruise. The bigger one forced Alia out of her arms, looked it over…

It took her by the throat… she screamed…

The thinner one said something that sounded like "Remember, special instructions" in a very raspy voice. The big one nodded.

Then it snapped her neck.

…

…

…

They dropped her and left.

…

No…

Fuck, no…

Not my sister. Not her. She was only five.

I try to resist crying. To my surprise it doesn't take much effort. At most I crack a single tear.

Fuck, no…

That's when dad called an ambulance, and the police. They arrived soon enough, and the fire department and G.U.N. mechs appeared a little while later.

He was too distraught and frightened to go near them.

He sat at his desk crying until the police arrived. A fed came upstairs, and you know the rest.

…

If I have to write about this someday, I would label this as a very heavy emotional turning point in my life. Not so much because of what happened, but because I now know that even during the violent assault of his family and death of his youngest child, my father never left his office.

That's just so damned pathetic I can't even put it into words.

"Where was your son Miles during all of this?" the fed asks. I knew I'd come into this at some point.

Long moment of thought.

"He left about fifteen minutes before it happened," dad says. I feel a pang of guilt.

"Oh?"

"We had a fight about something earlier, and he left… he went to play with some friend of his in the city, this girl that we've forbidden him to see. I think he said her name was Amy. Amy Rose."

Oh, shit.

"Amy Rose… can you describe her?"

"I've only seen her once, and I knew she was trouble the moment I laid eyes on her. Pink hedgehog, wears dark clothes, lives with some stripper adopted mother."

"Named Rouge?"

"Could have been. The name was mentioned at some point, so it's likely."

Oh, SHIT.

"Actually, we've been after the mother for some time now…" says Feddy.

"Is that so?"

"Yes. I'm not allowed to release information… suffice to say she's been suspected of some very heavy offenses… are you sure her name was Amy Rose?"

"Yes, positive."

"Do you know where they live?"

"I'm not certain, all I know is that they're in some dilapidated apartment block in the city."

OH, SHIT.

"Well then… I'm not sure how to tell you this, but from the information you've given me, your son is the suspected accomplice of a serial murderer."

"… my… son?"

"Yes, sir. I know it's difficult."

"… I don't care. Just get the little bastard out of my life."

…

…

God… dammit.

Dad, you asshole.

YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE.

I don't care about the laptop anymore, even though now I can clearly see it sitting on dad's desk.

I run downstairs and out the front door, teeth clenched together in rage.

I ignore the cops yelling at me and leap over the police line, sprinting to my bike. 

I hop on and kick it into gear, before revving it hard and ripping out onto the road as fast as I can.

I don't even slow down to give the study window the finger as I drive away from it, down the empty road, and let it fade out of my sight.

If I never go back to that house, that home, that life, that goddamn cesspit of an excuse for a fucking family…… it'll be too soon.

I fucking hate you, dad.

I fucking hate you.

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	14. The plan

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**14. The plan. **

[AMY, Sean Catlett]

I can't tell whether the rumbling inside of me is my stomach or the baby. My hand smacks my bare midsection involuntarily, probably leaving a giant red mark. I sigh deeply, along with ever present rumble, and I get up from the side of Rouge's bed. She stirs in her sleep. 

She has the gun clutched to her chest. It's pointed right at her head. 

The closet door is opened all the way. 

The thoughts that flow through my head are:  _"Is it a boy or a girl?" "They are watching." "I'm starving." "Take out the garbage." "I love you." "Oh fuck you, I'm leaving." "It wont be long." "She looks alright." "I'd fuck her." "Pleasure grunt." "She can take care of herself?" "Boo hoo hoo." "Where were you when the brains were handed out?" "Fag." "Get food, you stupid bitch."_

I'm not too sure what order they're supposed to go in, or at one point I really heard them, but right now, each word that pops into my head seems so far away, like it's a part of a history that demands to be remembered but that of which I'll never know for sure what really happened. I'm not even sure if it's my life I'm thinking about. 

I start to dress, putting on my worn jeans, my torn black shirt from _Temp-Sub_, my sandals from the beach, no bra, and this weird hair-scrunchy thing from my trip to the beach. 

I already know without looking that we have no money left, and for some reason I'm not in the mood to shoplift, so my options are somewhat limited. 

In fact, I only have one choice. 

Sandra. I can mooch off of her. I mean, she owes me some orgasms, so why not pay me money instead? It's closer to her means, anyway. 

So, it's decided. I venture out into the world, leaving Rouge to herself, 

Then . . . . 

I get the strangest feeling . . . . 

Something's wrong.

No, can't be.

Why would . . . .

I pick up the knife that I stuck in the wall last night, slipping it in my back pocket. It's not enough. I start searching the apartment for something, anything else . . . . . . 

 . . . . . . . . 

When I walk out of the apartment, the time of day hits me in the face, blinding me. The last rays of sunlight arc out, tonguing the sky with razor sharp knives, cutting the dark clouds above. The bat in my hand suddenly seems like a toothpick, and I feel like an idiot holding it like it could do some damage, especially against some gun-wielding undercover government fucks, or a blood-sucking serial killer who is probably a vampire.

Each step I make scratches against the floor loudly, rolling tiny pebbles under the soft rubber of the sandal. The stairs circle around each other, repeating the same move over and over again. In reality I make no real progress. I just go in circles, but the feeling of moving down is enough to assure me that I am getting closer and closer. 

With the night comes the cold. Even in the summer time the darkness feels as cold as snow. 

Down three flights, and I pass not one single degenerate or scum or fabled creature of the night. The sounds of my rough footsteps and my labored, stressed, tired breathing echoes along the narrow shaft. If someone else was here, it would be the perfect opportunity to take advantage of me . . . . . 

My heart beats faster. Blood pulses through me and goes where I wish it wouldn't go . . . 

Back.

The past.

The phantom limb I have starts to itch, starting out as a mere tickle and escalating into an outright atmosphere entry. The scars on my back suddenly feel like they're on fire because of some fake army dropping napalm on top of it. Tiny ants crawl and bite. A giant branding iron sears my flesh. The _glass shards of someone's 40 proof, thrown and broken bottle of alcohol works it way beneath my flesh with each thrust, digging deep, probably grazing a shard of my spine. Those biology classes I used to take oh so long ago start to drift in, and my legs go numb. For a second I think I'm paralyzed _

. . . . . . . . . . I drag the bat along the ground like a giant ape searching for a mate, keeping as focused as possible. The noises of the outside seem so distant . . . . . . . . . . 

_the shard works its way into the marrow, but i'm only thinking about it and not feeling it_

. . . . . . . .The superintendent has a strong right shoulder muscle and puts it to good use in front of his television set, wrapped in tin foil and spouting snow that looks vaguely like a woman. The dragging of the bat and the scraping of the dirt catch his attention, and when he looks at me, I say, "You'll have your rent in an hour," and I walk out . . . . . . . 

_and i start to cry. it hurts worse than anything and i thought that it would feel good. i mean, it's him. this is how it is in fucking folk lore, this is how the world should be. it should be magical. there should be no broken glass or bleeding or pain or whisperings that sound like threats. i expected some sort of massive burst of _

. . . . . . The city moves but it isn't alive. On the surface it's gritty and beneath it's filled with what's on top. This single grain of Pandora's Box rolls on a downhill plane, gathering enough of whatever sticks to it until it's as big as a planet. Greasy organisms grow and become self aware. They reproduce and dig deeper. Self-discovery is really self-indulgence. Soon, the planet becomes the organisms it gave birth to. The planet sees itself as a small part of bigger world and it's a grain again. And not to worry, because there is always a downhill plane . . . . . 

_he starts thrusting harder and harder, going further in and further out each time to the point where it feels like I'm being hit with a blunt object low in the stomach. he seems to be enjoying himself, at least. fuck, this only makes me cry even harder, not even bothering to scratch the hell out of his back. i only lie on my back, arms lowered to the glass in defeat, sobbing and allowing the paralyzing pain, hoping that it will at least move upward. i end up staring up at the starry sky_

. . . . It's a long walk, like I said, but it becomes nothing when I start to run. The feeling of dread rises like a balloon filled with helium. Sandra is in trouble. Somehow, she's in trouble and I have to save her or she dies. Someone wants her dead. Someone wants her dead. It's about here where I realize that someone is following me . . . 

_but i suppose that i don't count. after all, this isn't even for love. this is for revenge. this is for rejection. this is for telling him the truth. so what that makes it my fault that it happened? i could have continued living the _

. . So now the exact places I pass become insignificant. My goal stretches further away. I check behind me to see man dressed in gangster street clothes trying to keep up, holding a hand to his ear. He has trouble keeping his baggy clothes from falling down to his ankles, obviously not used to the feel of a stalker . 

It's a trap. 

_it was a trap_

what is _Was_ ha_ppen_ing?

I stop dead in my tracks, listening intently to the sounds of the night. My back is turned to the follower, waiting for him to walk past me. Maybe he's just a vagrant, following someone else. The thing is, he holds his hands under his coat like he's going to pull a gun out. 

_what if I become pregnant? on the outside chance that it's the perfect time for the imperfect moment, what if something actually decides to provide consequence?_

Stop.__

_i loved him, and I really did_

Wait.__

_wasn't a childish infatuation but maybe it was even so i have the right to change_

Run.__

_so I force myself to try to enjoy it_

As fast as you can.

_i can't_

I lose my sandals, the gravel digging into the soles of my feet. My calves get pounded into my knee. My breathing grows dry and caked. The city runs faster and faster across my field of vision. Details get lost and only the primary colors register with me. This is what it must have been like for him.

_the pain is like brimstone, cutting inside and running all the way back to my stomach. he jerks and groans and breaths hard on my face, collapsing on me, tired from the ordeal. the shards go deeper and I have to bite his shoulder to keep from crying out. his head blocks my view of the sky, the mask pulled up to the top of his head. he doesn't even bother to wear it anymore_

It's easier to run away from problems than to turn around and face them. I would know. I've been doing it for years, even before Sonic went to jail.

_and just when I think it's over_

The road ahead becomes a tangled mess of concrete that the city was just too lazy to fix or care about. I doesn't really matter, though. This cobweb in the slums is no different than any arrow in the richest neighborhood. The kids are still dealers, the parents are still pushers, and the cops still don't give a shit. 

_it starts again. he can't keep himself up as high as before, but he starts thrusting again. i guess it was a myth about men not wanting to continue after_

By now I can hear and feel the veins around my neck and head throbbing and raising against my skin. The knife seems fine in my belt but the bat is slowing me down. A fleeting thought flies past that I should ditch it, but then the cluster fuck of the streets turns into view, and as soon as I see a right turn, I take it. And with the vagrant in pursuit, I reach into my jeans, pull out the knife, and throw it into a garbage can.

_the little leeway i was waiting for comes. i wrap my legs around sonic, taking him in completely. with tears forming in my eyes, i start to meet his thrusts halfway. "I just wanted you to know_

"Fucking shit, how many of these are in this goddamn city?!" But I duck into it anyway. The walls throb with circulation. Moisture saturates and washes it all in a think paste. Somewhere I can hear moaning. I've forgotten all about Sandra when I lean my back against the brick of the alley and grip the bat to myself. 

I wait

_suddenly, unexpectedly, sonic bites down hard on my right_

His face comes around the corner in slow motion, partly obscured from above by a short brimmed hat turned downwards and from below by the collar of his black coat. All I see is the very corner of the color of his eye before the edge of the bat connects.

_i tell him stop. i tell him please stop. _

I don't stop swinging for a long time, each hit being a resounding echoed scream of pounded flesh magnified to the point of tossing the Richter scale upside down. 

_stop_

WHAM!

_stop_

WHAM!

_stop it please. _

Please stop. 

_wham, wham, wham._

A gun. Mother fucker had a gun on him. Mother fucker followed me because he was a cop. 

_i followed him because i thought i loved him_

F.

B.

I.

Secret agent.

Private investigator.

Whatever he was, I just bludgeoned him to shit with Tails' bat and then stole his gun.

This is either the luckiest or the worst night of my life. 

_he stops._

_he pulls out. _

_he looks down at himself then back at me, then back into the door where he got the drugs, looks ahead to the entrance where he jumped me, and he lifts me from the pavement, grunting_

Sandra. 

_"i just wanted you to know that i'm breaking up with you."_

_"what?!"_

_"well technically, we never were together. still . . . ."_

_"but . . . . why?!!"_

_"sonic, you're an asshole._

It's back to running. I cover a distance of about two blocks before I realize . . . . 

Okay.

Calm down.

You've just ran as fast as you could in the opposite direction. You're overreacting.

She's probably not even there. She won't be in danger. Everything will be fine and dandy. 

My vomit-like breathing slows to a crawl. I stare at the knife I threw in the garbage can, and I pick it up, pocketing it back and to the left. The gun goes in my right and to the front. The bat hangs loosely at my side.

And I start jogging towards our meeting place.

_i hold onto the sky as long as i can, but sonic already has the door kicked in. he heaves me, rather lightly, onto a soft, lumpy mattress in the corner of whatever room this is. it's strangely darker than outside, but i pretend that the spots of blood on the ceiling are constellations. then his gloved hands are back on me, the leather rippling and sending shivers along my spine. i can feel my legs again_

The apartment looks much different at night, more like a sinister enemy looming into the sky, watching its minions, making sure it all goes his way. Whenever I would have to sneak out of the house and venture across the roads of hell, I would always think of Robotnik. I would think about how things were so much better when he was always trying to kill us. Back when seeing each other fight and win was a refreshing change from the tedium of fame and fortune. Back when we weren't as stupid.

Back when seeing him was casual, and not so . . . . .

Personal.

_"asshole?"_

_"yeah."_

_"how am i an asshole?"_

_"you always insult everyone! and you keep saying you're gonna snuff me if I don't start puttin' out!"_

_"i'm only kidding when i say that!!"_

_"and, let's see, you hardly ever talk to me . . ."_

_"i call you all the time!"_

_"yeah, but only when you want money for drugs!"_

_"that's bullshit and you know it."_

_"you're high right now!"_

_"not high. drunk. there's a difference."_

_"the point is, it's over between us. i'm moving on."_

By the time I reach the fortress, the adrenaline pumps along at a cool, efficient pace. The shakes are gone. The bat, dripping the last drops of blood, feels as light as a toothpick again. I don't even think about breathing. 

Our room is on the second floor. It has a view on the entrance side. The light is NEVER off.

Second floor window . . . 

Second floor window . . . 

. . . . . . . 

_ten minutes of humping, he seems to regain his virility, and now it's even worse than before. he's thrusting harder and faster with a bigger tool, putting ferocity into it_

It's official. 

I'm fucked. 

_". . . . . . . who is he?"_

_"what?"_

_"who is it that's got you so fucking bitchy all of a sudden?!"_

_"bitchy?!!"_

_"yeah! you've been after me for years, just because one: i was rich, two: i was popular, three: because i was hot in red shoes. and now you're gonna throw years of devotion and acceptance away for the next new thing?! you little whore, you make me sick!!"_

_"at least he's not a drug addict who has friends that all hate him!!"_

_"are you fucking kidding me?! my friends love me!"_

_"news flash:  none of them do! tails hates you, rouge hates you, and knuckles hates you worst of all!"_

_pause. the world flashes by as the slightest absorbing of words takes place. osmosis lifts the curtains of confusion and an epiphany strikes._

_". . . . . it's him, isn't it?"_

_". . . . . . . ."_

Long story short, the guy at the front desk now has hurt arm and a gun pointed at his head. I'm screaming at him to call the cops but he only stares at me with empty, confused eyes. In the dim light of the bottom floor the elevator huddles itself into the corner, shielded from visitors and housing unknown monsters. It's easy to decide that the stairs would be much faster.

_it's late. i'm tired. i didn't get the job because i was "too short." the sun set three hours ago and the neighborhood i have to walk through to get home gives me the creeps. sonic used to take me here for long "romantic" walks, stressing all past-tense words because now it's all over with him. i thought i could escape every inch of the relationship, but fat chance. and as for motives or reasons, i didn't understand how this place could be anything but the perfect setting for a drug deal. i didn't know how right i was_

The pounding of my feet become cushioned and drowned by the noise of a sticky enzyme grasping at my soles. The sound of the two surfaces breaking apart echo along the endlessly stretched paper-thin structure known as "the walls." The gun is drawn. The bat sways in the darkness. I feel a voice call out to me from far below, a place of which I had planned to leave behind, saying that the phone lines are down. This sucks. This is awful. 

This is . . . . .

It.

_the mask back pulls down over his face, the drunk high fading into a frozen expression. the result is worse than the real thing, but this way, i'm supposed to pretend it's not him doing this. the gloved hands rip off my skirt, my underwear, my shirt, my bra. i barely get over the shock to cry out_

Last floor. Last chance. Last resort. Last door to the unknown. I cock the hammer back . . .

_an alley. the same dark alley from which i found out the true meaning of these "walks." in the twilight hours of the evening the scene seemed rather harmless, almost sappy-comic-book style. the non-realistic dealings of a fabled super-hero fallen from grace. the drugs barely looked threatening. the act itself was not illegal in the least, and in fact, i would not have been effected if not for the stabbing pain of the discovery _

The hallway opens up to screaming. The doors of sleeping tenants open and heads poke out, their angry poundings on the walls gone futile. Despite the light spilling into the crevasse, it's dark enough to feel like it's really a giant amoeba. Lack of light brings invitation for the pitch creatures to feed. And I'm stepping right through it. The only thing worse than moving too slow is having it hurt as well. 

_"f . . . . ."_

_"r . . . . ."_

_his hands don't feel like his. _

_that's not his face._

_it's quite possible it was a trick of the light._

_it's likely i'm being attacked and raped by a stranger. _

_but_

_but_

_those are his shoes_

Room 308. 

Right when I see the door I know it's locked. 

Sandra's screams prompt me to raise the gun and shoot my way in. The recoil almost breaks my arm into itself. Wood and metal splinter and are cast aside. The door is kicked in a mere second later, a continuation of the same movement. 

And then there's no light in the hall anymore. 

_"he's using you."_

_and she was right. both of them were. _

_so i took their advice. _

_and even the absolute-zero-cold of the city is a comfort rather than a distraction. even the prospect of being alone and poor isn't a problem. even being single cannot ruin the microcosm . . . . _

_even . . . _

_wait . . . ._

_is that_

A smooth outline.

The piercing, non-stop, unbearable screaming. 

Sandra's hair is such a bright shade of brown that she glows from the city lights. That and her eyes are wide enough with fear that what looks like these giant saucers of milk quiver and shake about seven feet off the ground. A giant beam of an arm vibrates and blows bright red, the faint sound of static electricity powering up. An engine whirs. Something hisses. Connected to the opposite of the beam of light are two giant red eyes, glowing in the dark. The gun already raised, I aim carefully, then I squint my eyes and I squeeze the trigger. 

Flash.

Flash. 

Flash.

The echo makes it seem like more than one, and it the light of the muzzle flash the clear face of another pair of glowing red eyes comes rushing forward. Along with the flash is a pinch, more painful than a sharp hanger crushing an egg. The two beings, they look so familiar . . . . 

Oh shit. 

Oh shit. 

Oh shit. 

_knuckles_

_"yes."_

_it's knuckles_

_did i do the right thing in telling him?_

_obviously not_

Dark again.

It's hissing at me, a horrible gasping halfway between a breath and a whistle. Between the sounds of whirring machines and Sandra's screams, I hear a body drop to the floor and glass breaking. The other pair of eyes falls through the window and out of sight, grinding greasy gears the entire way.

One down.

How many left?

The new menace is gone, but wind starts to rush behind me, sucked into a seemingly focal point just in front of me. A clinking of metal . . . . 

SHIT!

Splinters of wood rain down on me, the center and head of the bad completely shattered by the impact. I'm thrown back out of the apartment, sliding across the floor. in one swift motion the gun is brought up again and i fire

_"Sonic?!"_

_i forgot. _

_this is his connection._

_this is his dealer. _

_why is he staring at me?_

_he's mad._

_he's still mad at me._

_i don't get it._

_if i don't mean shit to him, why is he . . . . _

_is that a mask?_

and my first reaction was to hold the bat with both hands in front of me

it saved my life

_"what are you . . . doing?"_

_a step forward._

_a step forward._

_the mask he slips on reveals no emotion. the only thing i see is his eyes, and from the looks of it, he's already had his hit._

_and then he grabs me_

In one swift motion the gun is brought up again and I fire. 

Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

Another glimpse. His back. His back is turned to me, then he falls, struck. 

Darkness.

Robotnik. This is his work. Not a creation, but a stolen life.

Robotosization.

Who'd he get this time?

_Fu_ck you. 

Again, the shot is dead on, the recoil now minimal, and I get up, gritting my teeth, the broken bat merely splinters in my clenched fist, I dive towards the screaming. 

I end up rolling next to Sandra, still screaming and clutching her neck. 

"SHHH! It's me!" 

Realization hits. She shivers but calms down a little, lowering octaves. Her arms warp around my neck and I stand up. 

He's already waiting for us, hissing violently, outline stretching outwards, moving forward. I raise the gun and start backing up but I hear the turbines again . . . . 

_i'm already on the gravel, too surprised to cry out and fight back. my purse goes flying down the ally being me. strong, gloved hands_

_gloves?!!!_

_gloved hands press on my shoulders and pin me. a forever smiling white face hovers above, leering a strong lack of emotion. the broken bottom of a beer bottle shatters under me_

So I turn around to find Black hovering outside the window, brilliant red flame illuminating the apartment in a demonic shade of black. His arms fall to his sides, and he moves forward. I lower the gun.

Sandra and I run to the left, where I dredge up the desperate hope that the bathroom will provide safety . . 

Red drops in front of me, clenching his metal fists in rage, hissing unbearably. Sandra, hiding behind me, gripping my shoulders, screams "Shoot it!" so I raise the 

CRACK!!!

My right shoulder shatters like glass, a product of Red's oh-so-familiar fists attacking. The trigger still gets pulled but the shot goes wild, missing the target. 

Flash. 

Flash.

Flash.

Why the fuck is he so familiar?!!

Clutching my arm, I watch as he stands there, stoic and still hissing over the roar of the red glow of the jetpack outside, staring right through me at . . . . 

Computing.

Calculating. 

Striking.

He reels for another uppercut, bending down low to the ground and sucking in air for thrust. Straining, ignoring the stars, I force my arm around and fire when it comes close.

Flash.

Flash

f

l

a . . . . . . . . . . . metal dreds?

S on target

h

Bathroom.

Goal. 

I practically heave me and Sandra inside the confines of the walls, rolling deep. The window where we were explodes and Black hovers inside, scorching the carpet to fire. Red starts to get up. 

I slam the door right as it goes dark again. 

_and he just stares at me for a second_

_slowly i reach up and lift the mask off his face . . . . . . … . . . . .._

_he_

_stares_

_breathing hard, and with a slow hand he starts to _

I turn to Sandra, eyes glowing with fear, and she says, "I don't want to die. Don't let them hurt me," over and over. 

The only exit is back where we came. There is no window. The only thing in the room besides the rusty toilet is the rusty tub. What the fuck was I thinking?

I kiss her. 

Then,

"We're dead."

_faster_

_faster _

_faster_

_it's Sonic_

_i've always _

_i've always thought_

_well_

_maybe if i pretend_

_if it Knuckles, it'll be_

_god_

_no_

_chance_

_i fake it. _

_i release. he does too. big deal.  _

_and it feels worse than being stabbed in the back_

_he starts up again_

_the gloves come off_

_fast_

_fast_

_faster_

_someone bursts into the room, bellowing rage_

The doors busts open, Black's outline coming in first and getting thrown back by the first two shots, flash-flash-flash 2x, and Red comes in second before it goes dark again

Permanently. 

Click. 

Click.

Click.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Red's outline jumps into the air, ready to land on top of me, the hiss echoing within the confines, and I roll out of the way, coming up as he comes pounding on the floor, shaking the foundation. Black comes into the room and heads for Sandra, huddled in the tub against the wall. His right arm outstretches and reaches . . . . . 

I use both hands. The gun comes down like a club on his arm, jarring my wrists and shooting pain up my neck. My shoulder begins to work even less, so I just toss the gun and unsheathe the knife with my left, wrapping what's left of my right around his. Just as Black turns to look at me, I grip and bring it down as hard as I can . . . 

Red takes my legs out from under me. I land on the side of my head, taking the knife with me. The faint sound of an internal warning light reaches my ears, and before I can get up Red is on top of me, pinning me to the floor so low that my chest 

_i ask him what he's doing_

_he doesn't answer_

_and he thrusts inside me, grunting and pushing further and further_

_"_

I inhale the thick odor of oil and grease, and I grunt and try to lift him off of me. No use. His sharp fists 

GL_OV_ES?!!!

pin into the floor, keeping him rigid. Metallic strips from his head brush my face, they're sharp and they cut like razor blades, and he stares me down at me. I breathe in and I smell something that's faintly organic . . 

And the knife in my good arm thrusts into his belly, bending and twisting against metal. Red makes no move to attack as I stab, stab, stab into him, pulling out and going inside, further and further, faster and faster. I move for all vital organs and I get no reaction. 

I have a view over his shoulder to Sandra in the tub, now gripped by the neck in Black's busted arm. She screams loud and kicks her legs against the walls, knees hitting before feet, her other arm trying to hit him in the face, but all of this doesn't last long. As my stabs become more and more frantic and I grunt more and more desperately, her scream fades as the arms powers up again and then . . 

Blood goes everywhere. It splashes across my face and flows onto the floor where I'm pinned. I spit and choke. I can't breathe. Black stays pinned in the same position and my stabs slacken. Sandra's kicks cease, but her blood doesn't. Her eyes lose their light, and all that is inside her pours out of Black's busted arm, onto Red's back and down my face. The squirting of blood stays constant for about thirty seconds until the flow slackens, spurting and emptying. Black shakes his arm, shuddering Sandra's slumped form. Her body drops to the tub with a loud thump. Black leaves the room, while it takes Red at least ten seconds longer to stop staring at me and get up and leave.

I stay on the floor, bathed in Sandra's blood, and just before I pass out, I think about how beautiful the stars would look on a night like this, but it's obscured by the roof and the amount of red still in the room.

_i just wanted you to know . . . . . i'm sorry."_

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	15. TV is bad for you

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**15. TV is bad for you.**

[TAILS, David Macintyre]

Knock, knock.

"Who's there?" Kays' voice inquires from behind the white wooden door. I sigh in frustration. It's one in the morning, for Crissakes, who else would it be?!

"Jehova's fucking witnesses, who the hell do you THINK it is, Kays?"

"Sorry, I'm a Buddhist. And I'll have you arrested for stalking."

Another sigh comes out of my mouth, accompanied by a frustrated growl crossed with an irritated roar.

"God dammit, Kays, let me in!" I look over my shoulder quickly as if expecting a Fed to show up any second. Seeing none I look back at the door.

"No solicitors. The sign's in the lobby."

"KAYS, LET ME IN."

I wait for a moment as Kays pulls the door open. I look up stony-faced at him, eyes laced with venom, lip clenched. His sleek, mildly bony, face peers down at me. He looks falsely surprised.

"Tails! When did YOU start reading the Watchtower?"

"It's not funny anymore, Kays. It never was to begin with."

I continue glaring at him, his neat red locks, and sparkling, almost sinister smile. A con man's evilly innocent face.

"Oh, fine," he says, inviting me in. "Damn spoilsport."

"Fuck YOU."

"And welcome to Chez Kay," he says, waving his hand dramatically.

Kays' apartment is a fairly basic, three room residence—a large living room with a kitchen built in, then a short hallway adjacent on the right that leads to the bathroom and bedroom. At the moment only the living room is illuminated, by the soft glow of the white clock in the kitchen, a blue lamp resting next to the couch, and the gentle white flicker of the TV, muted. The curtains at the far end are open, showing the view of the brightly lit city.

I miss the stars.

Before nostalgia of my nighttime 'redeye' flight tests can kick in, Kays offers me a drink.

"Beer?"

"No, ginger ale," he says. "Nunna that pussy root beer shit…"

"Still non alcoholic. I'm surprised."

"Yeah, well, couldn't afford it."

"Fake ID expire?"

"You think I'm THAT dumb?" he says, covering up what is obviously the truth. I've got to be the only person who can see through Kays' lies.

"Very classy place you have here," I crack, sitting down on the soft couch on the other end of the room. I glance at the TV.

"DRINK," Kays barks in his best Irish voice, probably imitating some favorite British sitcom of his. He then emerges from the tile of the kitchen and crosses onto the carpet, throwing me a glass bottle. I catch it, barely.

"You dumbass, now it's all shaken."

"Fuck YOU."

I wait a moment and then take off the cap.

"I wouldn't drink that beer shit anyway," I say. "Tastes like piss."

Kays takes a swig of his own drink and picks up the remote.

"You WOULD know what piss tastes like," he says, turning up the volume.

"And we're watching…"

"Um…. It WAS the late news recap, but…"

Now's when I REALLY pay attention.

"WAS the news recap, but now it seems to be your house."

I stare enraptured at the screen. On the left half is a streaming, live shot of my house, with cops and feds milling around out front. On the right is that 'hot' female newscaster whose age Kays and I have made a bet on.

"…three members of the family have been hospitalized, the remaining daughter currently being kept in the hospital's child care center. The youngest, Alia Prower—" a photo of Alia from last November appears above the newscaster—"Six years old, has been pronounced dead."

Kays is the only one listening after that. It has something to do with other injuries or some bullshit, like it matters.

My head hangs, but I don't really notice.

Stare at feet.

"Did you know about this?" he asks. I nod slowly, my attention drifting away.

Dead…

The newsgirl jabbers for a moment.

"There whereabouts of Miles Prower—"

  
Attention.

"Is still unknown, but he will not be reported missing for another eighteen hours."

A photo of me appears, one from March earlier this year. I look happy, actually. Smile and everything.

That was BEFORE Sonic went and turned himself into David Gonterman.

The rape, to the layman ear.

Eye. Whatever.

I curse softly and stomp. Now everyone will be looking for me.

"You ran away from home?" Kays laughs disbelievingly, sipping his ginger ale. "You badass."

"Not now, Kays." I choke… in fear, or sadness, or something in between.

"And… omigod…"

"Uh oh." Kays turns up the volume.

  
The newsgirl stares intently at the camera, sounding every bit sincerely afraid.

"Viewers, I strongly urge you to lock your doors and windows and arm yourselves as best you can. The… the Vampire has struck again!"

!!!!!

Kays' 'Holy FUCK!' clashes simultaneously with my 'Jesus Christ!'

"The victim was found approximately one hour ago by a local police officer who was summoned to the scene. However, whoever made the phone call was nowhere to be found when police officials arrived."

"Who was the VICTIM?!" Kays practically yells.

As if on cue:

"The victim, thanks to identification laid on top of the body by presumably the caller for help or the Vampire itself, has been speedily identified as one Sandra Acorn." Photo.

…

I almost laugh from the name recognition.

"That's Amy's lesbian," I say, turning up the volume.

"What?"

"My friend Amy is a lesbian," I say. "Sandra's… um, WAS her girlfriend."

Kays nods, grinning. "Is this Amy a HOT lesbian?"

"Depends what you're into." I can't believe I just answered him.

"Big tits and alternative sexuality."

"She's half of that."

"Damn."

I keep listening. The newsgirl just blabs on about the distinguishing marks the Vampire makes, emphasizing everything.

"Man, Eggman must've laughed his chunky ass off when he found that one out."

"What?"

"That Amy's a lesbian."

"No, I mean what has Robotnik got to do with anything?"

I haven't seen Kays in this serious a mood in a long time, so I decide to humor him.

"He's behind all this, Kays.  I know it," I say, resisting the note of contempt squeezing its way out of my throat. "I'm fucking going to prove it."

"Why?"

Good question, actually.

Why?

Why do I care?

To clear Rouge's name?

To make life easier on Amy?

As an excuse to get Sonic out of jail?

…

"Because he's fucking killing my family," I say. "I don't know how or entirely why, but he is. I KNOW it's him."

"You're a good kid, Tails," Kays admits, reaching for his ginger ale. "But I notice you don't seem to fazed about anything these days."

"What?"

"You're becoming selfish. Not as a directly outward thing, I mean, it's just that your motives lately seem to be become more and more self-oriented."

"So? You didn't even crack a tear for your brother," I quip, scowling at what he could be getting at.

"You don't want to end up like me, and you know it."

Deep down I know he's probably right.

Like he says, girls only go for the cynical bad boy thing for awhile. It gets old. Among a lot of other things.

Bad example.

"While the FBI has released minimal information about the case and no suspects have been named to the public, a suspected accomplice—"

Click.

"—of the Vampire has been named, one… Miles Prower." A photo of me appears on screen—this time it's a post-rape picture, black and white, I think the one they took on that 'Police day' or whatever the fuck it was at school when they brought in the cops and took your fingerprints and shit, trying to make it seem 'fun'. Come on, you must know what I mean. Point is, I'm wearing a scowl. That's propaganda for you.

Double click.

"The same Miles Prower."

  
Triple fucking click.

"Whether or not these cases are related is unknown, but police and federal investigators are looking into both as we speak. And now is the viewer's opportunity to collect double rewards by calling the two numbers on the screen with any information leading to the recovery and arrest of Miles Prower." The numbers for the missing persons line and America's Most Wanted or whatever appear onscreen. "Caution is strongly advised. As the former ward of convicted rapist Sonic the hedgehog, Prower is to be considered extremely dangerous, even while unarmed."

Silence…

Silence…

Silence…

"We're forced to cut camera feed now for the preferences of the Station Square police. So we're out of time. Thank you, and goodnight… and good luck, everyone."

I look over to Kays. He looks back over at me.

I breathe heavily in fear. I don't like the look in his eyes.

His brother. He's thinking about his brother.

Breathe.

Breathe.

"Kays… I… I'm… you know I didn't…"

He just stares down at me, eyes glassy and… is that… mist?

"Meaters," he says. "My brother. Meaters."

"Kays, I don't have anything to DO with them!"

"My brother. Your own fucking cousin, Tails."

"Kays, I didn't… KAYS!"

He reaches into a pouch strapped to his right thigh. He pulls out one of his experimental guns.

"FUCK!"

I leap from the couch and swing my foot hard at the hand holding the gun. Kays roars in frustration, probably regretting ever teaching me that, as it flies across the apartment and hits the far wall.

I only know this because of the sound it makes as it hits the wall. All else is running.

"TERRORIST! MURDERER! FUCKING RAPIST!"

His ginger ale bottle collides with my ankle. I don't trip, but I stumble enough for him to reach the door before I do and block it with his body, then lock it.

I know all too well what comes next.

"Shi—"

I turn and bolt for the window, willing to risk another long shot to stay alive. Good, it's open.

I run as hard as I can for the window. I can hear him follow.

I look to leap for the window—

"FUCKER!" he screams. Lunge. Contact. Slam.

"KAYS! STOP IT, YOU FUCKING PSYCHO!"

"Bitch."

I roll around underneath him, his weight supported by his arms. I roll onto my back.

I stop when I hear the familiar click.

I look up.

He's picked up the gun from the floor and pointed it between my eyes.

"Eep."

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	16. The departure

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**16. The departure. **

[AMY, Sean Catlett]

". . . . . . tails?"

"What?"

". . . . . nothing."

How long have I been out?

"What do you want?"

". . . . . ."

"Look, I'm a little busy right now . . ."

"sandra's dead."

". . . .  Oh. Right. That."

Where the hell am I?

"Wait, who?"

"sandra."

"I can't keep track of all your clit-clique friends, Amy. You'll have to be a little more specific."

When did I wake up?

"i . . . i just thought you'd want to know who's doing it."

When and how did I make it back to the apartment?

Who the fuck am I talking to?

"You know?"

"i have a really . . . really . . . really good idea."

"How could you possibly know?"

Don't say. Line tapped. They're listening.

". . . robots . . . robotosized . . . two of them . . . red and black . . . they attacked us, killed her, left me alone . . ."

"Eggman?"

Click click click. 

They're listening.

Give him the facts. 

"yeah. eggman."

"Well, gee, as though the thought hadn't crossed my mind already." Sigh. "Are you sure?"

Did I call him or did he call me?

"i don't have proof."

"That doesn't do me a fat lot of good then, does it? I told you to only call here if it was an emergency."

Angry. Frustrated. Is that usual for him?

"well . . . now you know for sure."

"No, no I don't know, Amy. All I have to go off of is the word of some whacked out, dick-hating broad that has issues with sexuality. I'll be laughed right out of the precinct, after, of course, the ten year incarceration."

Did that hurt?

I'm not sure. 

"you don't care, do you?"

In a rush it suddenly all makes sense again. The apartment walls come into focus. The call . . . 

"You don't even care, do you, you obnoxious little puke! I'm helping you and you don't even give a shit!! Fuck you!"

Funny, you'd think that would feel good, but really I feel like I just swallowed more vomit rather than spew it. My face pulls tight and my eyes squint. I grip the phone so tight that I hear it crack. 

"This is so typical, you little cunt. Only thinking about yourself, about your little problems with your release valves. Well, excuse me, but your little lesbian BITCH isn't on my list of priorities right now! Family comes first!!"

Great. Perfect. Fine. 

These tiny trails of hot  liquid start running down my face. I close my eyes and force out an apology. 

Sigh. "Accepted. I'm sorry too."

"Who . . . ?"

". . . . . . sis."

"I see."

"She was on the news . ."

That comment is so odd that I can't think of what to say next. The silence is suffocating. I can barely push any coherent phrase out, so what I end up saying is something like: "You have a plan?"

"For?"

"Safety. In case Eggman sends them again."

"And the FBI?"

"Tame. Tame compared to what lies ahead." I'm choking on syllables. 

"If they're listening, then they know the task. Is Rouge still there?"

". . yeah."

"Get her out of there. Take her anywhere in the city just for the night. Is there a friend's house you can stay at?"

"of the living persuasion, no. but i guess i can manage something."

"If they come after you . . ."

Click click click.

" . . . don't get caught. don't give up. i know."

"I'm liking you more already. Call me tomorrow from a payphone, alright?"

"i-i-if….. i'm ….. still alive…."

"You'll be fine."

"okay. thanks. bye."

The phone doesn't even hang up before I start to sob.

________________________

The tenants upstairs are taking a shower. Lucky me. 

It would make a funny police report if the FBI storms into the apartment right now, guns raised and shouting orders to each other, flashlights arcing in the dark, snipers on the building across the way from mine, and they find me in the shower, covered in nothing but soap and completely willing to cooperate. In fact, this is their last chance.

Any minute now . . . 

The superintendent usually empties testicle fluid on his floor around this time of night, and you'd think that would make him less of a prick, but no, his stamina is amazing. It could be him that's pounding at the door right now, or it could be . . .

Come on. Get in already. 

None of the lights work here. Neither does the plumbing. Air conditioning is a joke. But I can't complain because it'll get us evicted.

I keep seeing shadows move. Tricks of my mind, I know, but every time I jumped and cried some more. I haven't left the apartment yet because I'm scared out of my fucking mind. I can't tell if it's night or day because the windows are boarded up. I don't have a watch anymore. I lent it to someone . . . 

By the time I reached the shower, the comforting, confined, claustrophobic slab of a white, linoleum tomb, I didn't care any more. The FBI can have me. Robotnik's freaks can come in and kill me. That jerk-off can go ahead and throw us out.

I give up.

You can only take a shower here if the tenants upstairs are as well, since we're stacked on top of each other like a newlywed couple. The ceiling is water damaged, and loud noises leak through. Sometimes a fight. Sometimes the television. Sometimes . . 

Nothing works, and I can only hope that my coffin is really, really thick, so I don't have to hear the neighbors scratch and crawl at theirs. I would just want some rest. But no, even then I'd probably be cheated out of it. Downsized and crammed into the anchovie afterlife. Everyone wants a piece, and if we don't give up a little of our own, if we don't share, then none of us get anything. As the years pass more and more will be stacked on top, and all hope for rest will be lost.

But anyway. 

The door pounds louder and louder each time, but I close my eyes and drift, concentrating on the noises from above. The already-soapy water runs down the entire length of my body, washing Sandra's caked blood off of me. I don't bother to scrub. I just stand still, letting the water pound away at me, the oil and blood mixing and disappearing down the drain. A giant black and blue bruise radiates from my shoulder, a giant black hole of a tattoo. It hurts to move it. It hurts to touch it. When I feel my face there are all sorts of tiny cuts in it, raw and exposed, just beginning to hurt and heal themselves. I'll probably end up with scars that look like the ones on my back. Above me, over the sound of the water and the door, I can hear voices. 

About fifteen or twenty minutes ago, I remember someone walking up to the counter, covered in blood. I remember someone staring blankly at the superintendent, who also stared back, but in surprise. I remember this someone flipping a soaked wad of cash onto the counter. I remember the excess dripping onto the floor. I remember the someone saying: "I told you." and then shuffling to her room three or four or whatever flights up. 

He shouldn't complain. He probably gets this all the time. But the grudge remains, and now he's pounding on the door. 

"Take it, yeah, take it, bitch, uh!" "Oh god, oh yes!"

Why the fuck was I spared? Why didn't they kill me along with Sandra?

Flash, flash, flash. Click. Click. Click.

Click.

Oh.

"Fuck me!"

Forget trying to find a decent place to live anymore. They're all taken already. 

Hmmm. Maybe mass destruction is a good thing… 

Pound, pound, pound. Rouge is being unusually quiet. I wonder how she'll take the news… 

"Yeah, you like it dirty, don't you?" "You like this cock? You want me to fuck you with it?"

They only attacked me when I was in their way. I was pinned to the floor so they could take Sandra only. They wanted her blood . . . . why?

I'm almost clean, my legs being the last that need rinsing. My clothes lay heaped in a bloody pile in the corner, next to the toilet. The screams and shouts from above haven't ceased. 

In the shower with me, the gun and the knife. One is broken, empty, and slick with red chrome, the other is bent in half, dull, gnarled, and shining black. The bat is still in pieces at the apartment . . . 

One at a time. 

Robotnik is killing us one at a time. The methodical, retarded bastard.

I get out of the tomb, not bothering to dry myself off. I walk into my room, the window still busted from when whoever decided to break in, and I pick out new clothes. Something colorful. Something stylish. I want to make a good corpse. 

They missed their window. 

Even Mr. Super has given up. The apartment is so quiet I can actually hear the couple's labored breathing.

When I reach Rouge's room, to tell her that we have to leave, she's already dressed, the gun in her left hand and the closet door wide open. 

Empty. 

"I want to leave." 

". . . Good idea."

I lower my eyes to the floor, so she won't see how glad I am to see her again.

"You okay?"

"Funny, I'd ask you the same thing."

No one stops us on the way out, not even the superintendent, who just wedges himself as far away from us as possible on the ground floor.

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	17. Arnold Schwarzenegger

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**17. ****Arnold**** Schwarzenegger.**

[TAILS, David Macintyre] 

I put the phone down, frowning. I'm not up to Amy's bitching and moaning right now.

Thirst.

I get a bottle of coke out of the kitchen, drinking it as I walk across the apartment to the TV. I sit on the couch.

  
As I reach for the remote on the ground, watching the news slowly sifts out of my mind when I see the bloodstained patch of carpet near the emptied, faulty gun. It still lies where he dropped it after being knocked in the face. A smaller blotch of nosebleed decorates the floor where I hooked Kays in the nose, upon hearing the miraculous sound of the gun's trigger seizing up. Experimental indeed.

I return to the kitchen, all desire to watch TV dissolved. On the way I see the still open linen closet, where I found a sheet suitable for tying up Kays after the gun went off.

I open the door under the sink. At the bottom of the trash can I see the reddened bullet I had hurriedly removed from Kays' forearm the night before. I drop the empty bottle in and close it with a prominent thudding noise.

I glance suspiciously around the room and exit into the hall to check on Kays.

I open the janitor's closet which is across and a little to the left of Kays' apartment door. He's still sitting there where I stashed him, if only for a short time, with the same gag over his mouth. I hate to trust him.

Even with the silver strip covering his mouth, I can tell he's frowning. His brow furrows in contempt.

  
I smile, trying to look trustworthy or innocent. Something like that.

"I'll get you some more dressing for that today," I say, nodding at his wounded right forearm. The bandage is still soaked with red, hiding the hole where the bullet went after being discharged from the impact of the gun's fall. Long story of firearm physics.

He nods slowly and wordlessly. His face doesn't show a sign of pain.

My attempt to establish trust or innocence is short lived. He retains a hard frown as I close the door and return to the room.

I slide the door open quietly, looking around as if expecting something dangerous to jump out and bite me at any moment. I turn to shut the door, and lock it. Then I turn around again, toward the couch.

Fuck.

It's already inside.

The glass lies in a shattered heap in its wake, and it looks around menacingly. Shortly the second one follows.

FUCK.

My throat catches up before I can scream.

A red line appears from the eye of the first one. This is the bulky red one I hear so much about. He has one huge left arm, a thinner right armed with a couple of very mean looking spikes, and a head decorated with white metal to look like a skull. Blades hang from the sides of his head, resembling dreadlocks.

By the time I've registered all this in my mind, I'm already cowering like a bitch behind the kitchen counter. I leapt to safety as the two of them immediately started raising hell.

FUCK.

I pant heavily in fear, almost hyperventilating. I feel like I have asthma. I look around for anything that might help me, but I see nothing capable of taking down two murderous robots.

  
The same ones that killed my family, and Amy's girlfriend, and Kays' brother. No doubt. Now they're here for me.

I wait for the gruesome death to come.

My family. My friends. And now me.

…

…

…

.

.

.

.

Nothing

Happens

Just

The

Whirring

Clicking

Of metal

I tune my selective hearing at noticing a high pitched whine among the short silences between smashing sounds. They're taking this place to pieces, I'll bet. The whine comes in short bursts.

It's electronic, like the kind of noise you hear if you mute a TV or turn on a power socket in a quiet room. If your hearing's that good, anyway.

They're communicating. That's all it can be, seeing as they've taken out the TV.

I get up, almost pissing myself in the process, and fumble around for the portable radio sitting on the kitchen counter. I pull it down by the headphones and quickly put them on, tuning the dial back and forth until I pick up something I will assume to be them.

Two voices talking. Sounding very automated, but still laced with their own individuality that is hauntingly familiar.

KAYS_PROWER\ says a deep, hardened voice. I get static and tune the radio a little more. The voice reminds me of…

HE.S_NOT_HERE\ says another, raspy and cold. It reminds me of...

LOOK_HARDER\ says the first. I assume it belongs to the big red one. Crash sound.

I_WILL_CHECK_THIS_ROOM\ says the other, presumably the wiry black one. YOU_GO_DOWN_THAT_SIDE\

There are lots of clicks, whirs and stomps as the red one hurries off down the side hallway to the bedroom and bathroom.

  
I cower more as they search. Nothing more is said.

Crash sounds, moving noises, the like.

Before long.

"Oh, shit…"

That's all I can say.

  
No arrgh, no aaaagh, no squee, just 'Oh, shit'.

The black one sidles into the kitchen, throwing open drawers like a moron. As if he's hiding in there.

I see that besides its silver muzzle-thing and gold fittings adorning its body, and the flame patterns that highlight the five bent spikes radiating from its head, it is pitch black. Piercing red eyes lay in their appropriate places, that drive all courage from my body.

Its head snaps to the right to meet my eyes, staring right at me.

Damn it.

A red laser extends from its eye and into mine. I don't move at all. More voice crackles in my ears.

FOUND\:IDENTIFYING\:

Wait. Sweat. Wait. Sweat. Wait. Sweat. Wait. Sweat.

W

A

I

T

.

S

W

E

A

T

.

NEGATIVE\:THIS_IS_NOT_THE_TARGET\

THE_PROWER_IS_NOT_HERE\ says big red, causing black wire to leave the kitchen. HE_ESCAPED\:

REPORT_TO_BASE\ says black wire. WE.LL_COME_BACK_LATER\

AFFIRMATIVE\

IF_YOU_HADN.T_MADE_SO_MUCH_NOISE_COMING_IN_HE_WOULDN.T_HAVE_GOTTEN_AWAY\

FUCK_YOUSHADE\

They're… arguing.

This is conversation. Like people. Not like a couple of automated messages or answering machines. This is conversation. No machine can fake this.

These are people. Roboticized people.

I get up and run to the window, watching as they leap out in single file. The red one assumes a gliding position and is boosted by leg jets to a nearby rooftop. The other one appears to land on the ground and run up the same building. They leave.

No

Fucking

Way

Are

They

Getting

Away

FROM

ME

!!!!

________________________

Vroom.

It only took a minute or two to get outside and grab my bike from the parking lot. Morning traffic is on my side, not a car in sight. I pull out on to the road, making sure the big gun I strapped to my side is secure.

Vroom again.

I cut loose down the alley between the buildings they went to, setting up my computer system as I go. I love this bike sometimes.

I keep driving until I come out into a more open area, and look up. I look forward as I try to keep my eyes on the wide road in front of me, and try to spot them.

There. There's one.

I make sure my radio is tuned to the right signal.

Then, very carefully, I pull the gun out and tuck it under my arm. I aim it upwards in the general direction of the red one, and pull the trigger. A the recoil causes the bike to veer.

\/\/3|23_UNDER_AT74(K\ says the red one. He speeds up in midair. I see the black one following him across the rooftops.

I fire again.

#4STER\ it says, the signal weak.

This isn't going to work.

But I'm not giving up.

I think carefully for about half a second, then veer hard to my right and into the lobby of a business building of some kind. People scatter, things get thrown at me. I aim for the stairs on the far left of the room, none of the elevators open.

I head up the stairs in a constant circular pattern until I reach an open elevator, then drive into it, bumping against the wall. The people inside have already evacuated. It's heading down. Fuck.

I hit emergency stop, then the floor for the roof. I wait, 20 seconds of agonizing still.

I drive out on to the roof, hardly believing I've even gotten this far.

You know what I'm doing, don't you?

Trust me, it'll work. I saw it in True Lies.

  
And that guy didn't have the Whirlwind.

I push a button by my leg, and the bike rocks a bit. The back panels open, a pair of boosters I put in becoming active.

Think this is a little too far fetched, do you?

Well, screw you, because I can do things you can't even imagine.

I rev the bike again, boosters ready, and my finger on the 'jump trigger' that now protrudes from the handle. I drive very hard towards the edge of the building, and push.

  
Sproing.

The bike leaps off the edge of the building, the boosters propelling it to the next rooftop with relative ease. Don't you wish you were me.

I look around for the bots, going from roof to roof madly.

There. I see them.

I get out the gun and fire again, almost missing my cue for jump trigger. I REALLY need to get this thing cruise control, or something.

Bang.

HE.S_57|11_AFTER_US\ says the black one. I see him two buildings across from me, leaping from roof to roof with ease. I have NO idea where they're going, but I don't care.

Fire.

RUN\ 

The signal gets stronger.

I veer hard to my right when I come to a wider roof, and leap the two buildings it takes to be aligned with them. I veer to the left and continue chasing.

SCRAMBLE\

I wonder if they have any idea I'm listening.

I fire the gun, but the black one veers to the left, and I miss. I am forced to follow, taking a very long, diagonal jump between the two. I only just make it.

HE.S_CATCHING_UP\

I fire again, clipping the black one across the side. I grit my teeth.

"Fucker."

I go as fast as possible, catching up to the black one slowly but surely.

I fire the gun at it, nailing him through the circular engine running through his torso. Sparks fly. He slows.

DON.T_LET_HIM_FIND_THE_BASE\: GET_\: |3AC|{ TO DR. EG6/\/\4|\| 01011100101000111000\\\\\\\\ 

  
C:ERROR

His speech dies completely.

I brake as quickly as I can, jumping to the next building and then coming to a complete stop.

The bot doesn't catch up with me, and instead plummets to the ground between the two buildings.

________________________

It took about an hour to retrieve him, get some tools out of my workshop, and then haul him back to Kays' house. It wouldn't have taken as long if I'd had my laptop.

But I guess we can't all have what we want.

"Kays, look at this," I say, dragging his bound form into the apartment. He doesn't struggle. He remains unfazed when I showed him the heap of black metal lying on his floor.

"They came here for you," I say. He rolls his eyes. "Kays, these are the guys that attacked my sister. And Amy's lesbian. THIS guy is the one who killed your brother, not me. I swear."

Another eye roll.

"Dammit, Kays, stop being so fucking stubborn."

I drag the bot into the back room, along with Kays, so he can be sure I'm not faking this.

If there's anything Kays will believe, it's this.

I unscrew a plate on the top of the robot's head and pulled a long cord from it, which I clip. I take the loose wire ends and attach them to one that I had taken from my workshop, which I plug into the back of Kays' PC. You wouldn't even comprehend how difficult it was to figure all this out while driving a motorcycle. But that's what I'm here for.

I open a program on Kays' PC and am faced with a constantly changing page of binary code, but with the digits 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7 to make things more difficult. Robotnik and his fucking codes. Luckily I've dealt with this before, and it doesn't seem to be much different than the last time. Kays is much better at this than me, though.

I hear a distinct laugh come from Kays through his tape.

"Shut up, Kays."

I take awhile decoding the page. It's incredibly boring to describe. I had to get about four bottles of coke, and it was getting dark by the time I was finished. I only cracked the part of the code that I wanted—the hit list.

I push print as soon as what I wanted appeared.

"Look, look at this," I say, shoving a piece of paper in Kays' face. I circle what I want him to see with a pen. He looks it over.

"Look, here's your brother, number four. Complete," I said. "And this is my sister, complete, and here's Amy's girlfriend, complete. You're right here, incomplete. But look—" I point. "I'M here too, incomplete. I'm number fifteen. They're going to come for me as well." 

I am incredibly surprised at how relieved I sound and feel saying that. He thinks it over. Then he nods.

"Mmph."

"What?"

  
"Mmph mm."

"The tape?"

"Mmph."

I breathe a gigantic sigh of relief as I pull it off, and he DOESN'T scream 'murderer'.

He stares at me hard.

"Okay, Tails, I believe you," he said. I sigh heavily.

"Thank GOD."

"But I'm going to crack the rest of the code. You're not out of the fire yet."

"Okay. You're better at it than me anyhow."

"Just fucking untie me, or I'll bite you."

I do so.

________________________

I sit in the living room, going in to check on Kays' progress every few minutes due to boredom. At the moment he's got about 45% of it decoded, which is mostly just hardware information, but it's still downloading the file.

"So what are you planning to do about all this, Tails?"

Eh?

"Come again?"

"You know what I mean. That," he says, motioning at the crumpled heap of black metal on the floor. "What are you going to do to stop all this?"

"Uhh…" I don't want to tell him about Sonic, for fear of how it might come off. My image is at stake.

"You WERE planning to do something, right?"

"Er…"

"You're Tails fucking Prower, for Crissakes. I thought you were always the hero."

"But…"

"Tails, I heard you yelling at your friend on the phone. Amy, is it?"

"…yeah."

"I think you're going about this totally the wrong way."

Oh, god.

"But."  
  
  


Hm?  
  
  


"It's not your fault. You're having a psychological issue right now, that I think you may want to know about."

"God. You're saying I'm some kind of psychopath?"

"You were ALWAYS a psycho. But right now… Sonic's raped the girl and gotten himself into prison, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, all your life, at least as far as I can tell, you've been following Sonic like he was some kind of messiah to you. He was your idol, am I right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, now that he's gone and done something totally against what he's been teaching you, you're worried that if you keep following his example, you'll end up like that too. So as a result, you're subconsciously rebelling against everything he's taught you. Namely, help others. That's why you're being such a prick, Tails, not just because it's you."

Oh, thanks.

"….and you know this how?"

"I'm into things you can't even imagine."

I leave it at that.

"So, were you planning to try and stop this?"

"Yeah, of course!"

  
"How?"

"….well… Sonic."

"Hm?"

"Sonic wants me to help bust him out of jail."  
  
"Really."

"Yeah. We… um… we were supposed to pull it off tonight, but I can't, because I haven't got my laptop. I can't crack the comp system AND have a driver there for him at the same time."

"…Tails, I'll help you."

"Oh my god. Really?"

"If there's anybody you NEED on this job, it's me. You couldn't hack apart a pot plant, let alone a prison security system."

Oh, thanks again.

"Okay. Awesome. Thank you so much, Kays."

"Just doing my job."

"So does that mean we can do it tonight?"

"….no."

"Why not?"

"My internet system is down right now. And even if I had that, there's some complications to getting in that I can only do if I'm on the actual site. So we're gonna have to get your laptop back. I can probably do that."

"…Okay."

It's left at that.

I wait there in the room, drinking my coke and reading a manual of some kind. I'm not really paying attention to it; I'm too busy fabricating Kays and his skills into the plan. He can drive, and teach me how to get into the system. It's all perfect.

Now, how to break it to Sonic that we can't do it tonight…

…

…

"Tails, do you know someone called Shadow?"

"What?" The name rings more bells than Quasimodo in the 'zone'. My heart pounds.

"Who is Shadow?"

I look at the computer screen.

Kays has cracked a huge amount of the code, bringing up a full hardware report. He seems uninterested in the hit list, as it has only one more name on it—Sonic's, at the very bottom, incomplete. He scrolls down.

"Look here. Model is Roboticized specimen R-601 S, codenamed 'Shade'. Formerly known as 'Shadow'."

Oh god.

  
Oh god.

Oh god.

A thousand thoughts course through my mind. I feel a headache coming on.

Shadow.

Shadow. Shadow. Shadowshadowshadowshadow.

Howdidhelivewheredidhecomefromwhatisthiswhatisheuptowhydoeshewantusdeadhowdidhesurvivedidhesurviveatallwheredideggmanfindhimwhatdoeshewantwithusdidheknowhewouldbedoingthishowmanyofushashekilledwhatmoredoeshewant

"Shadow the hedgehog…" I say.

  
"You know him?"

Before anything else can be said, a metal hand clamps around my throat, keeping air out of my lungs.

'Shade' gets back up. My eyes widen in fear.

He strangles me. Kays hits it, yelling loudly, but it has no effect.

I hear that piercing radio noise again just as I feel a sharp object press against my throat.

SHADEREPORT_BACK_TO_BASE\NOW///

He drops me. I gasp for air.

He leaps into the air and crashes through the room's window, leaving and leaping to safety as he had before. He disappears from sight. Sparks fly from his torso.

Kays wraps something around my neck, probably some kind of bandage, soaking up what little bleeding I have. It comes from the side of my neck just to the right of my Adam's apple.

"Vampire," I choke out. "Vampire, look. The fucking Vampire was in our house. I told you Eggman was behind this."

He frowns deeply. Then he turns to look at the window.

"Fucking oats, now I have to get that one fixed as well…."

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	18. A change in plans

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**18. A change in plans.**

[SONIC, Stephen Zacharus]

"Sure you don't need a spotter, Hedgehog?  Those weights look a bit heavy for you."

Laughter.

"Yeah, that's right," snickers another voice, slightly higher, nasal.  "Probably spends too much time running around to be worth a shit on the bench press."

"Hurry up, will ya?" snaps a deeper voice--not without a hint of cynical enjoyment.  "You can't keep *hoggin'* the weights all afternoon!  Heh heh."

More laughter, wilder.

Oh, they're regular comedians, these guys.  Ahyuck hyuck hyuck.

I try to ignore them, but I just end up losing my concentration.  Fuck it.  I'm finished.  After I put the bar in its place, stack the weights against the cold, gray wall, I turn and see my witty observers standing in a semi-circle around me.

!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Wha--?!.

Vector Crocodile.  Mighty Armadillo.  Charmy Bee.  Espio Chameleon.

The fucking Chaotix.

What the hell are *they* doing here…?

"Funny," Vector says, stepping apart forward a bit, "you're shorter in person.  I guess Knux was right."

Well, damn, ain't he da shit.

"Gee," I say, stepping up to him, "and here he was telling me you pumped up a bit.  I guess Knux was wrong."

"Is that so?  Well, you two probably talked about my body all the time."

"Wouldn't surprise me.  He ever tell you about this time we went to the movie theater and… well, I shouldn't say anything.  I'm sure you and Knuckles were close."

I have this funny habit of pissing everybody off lately, don't I?

Vector snickers, glancing to his backup.  "You have a fast mouth, Hedgehog.  That's not healthy around here.  Guess you haven't smartened up any since you got high and banged the shit out of that little girl.  Hell of a fuck up, if you'll excuse the pun."

I don't want to fight.  Damn it, Vector, I *don't* want to fight.  

I try not to let his comment get the better of me.  I say nothing.

"Sure not the model citizen they made you out to be," Charmy pipes in.  Oh, they all think it's fucking hilarious.

"Guess not.  So, what the hell are *you* all in for?"

"We were short on cash," says Charmy, laughing.  "Armed robbery."

"And manslaughter," Espio mutters.

"Vector shot a guy," Mighty says.

"And that was YOUR fault," Vector says, turning to Mighty.  "YOU didn't fucking tell me there were real bullets in that gun."

"Well fuck me till I cry, Vec, doesn't do us any good to point fingers *now*, does it?"

Suddenly I don't like the air in here anymore.  Hell, the guard across the room isn't even paying attention to us.

"Well guys," I say, turning, "nice meeting you, but I think I'm goin' back to my cell…"

A grip on my shoulder--Vector's.

"Not so fast, Hedgehog.  We keep hearin' from everybody that you're not very polite around here.  That you act like you're *better* than everyone else or somethin'.  You better watch your back.  We can make your life pretty damn miserable, and I guarantee the guards won't do *shit.* "

Fuck you, Vector.  I *am* better than everyone else.

"Well," I say lightly, "that's not gonna matter in a few days, is it?"

Vector and the Chaotix are silent.  It seems like we're the only people in the universe right now.

Only when Vector edges closer to me do I realize what I just said.

…FUCK.

I did NOT say that out loud.  God, please tell me I didn't say that out loud…

"You plannin' somethin', Hedgehog?"

SHIT.

Vector lowers his voice.  "You bustin' out of here, ain't you?"

I try to brush past him.

"Fuck you."

He doesn't budge.  He grabs me by the arm.

"We're in on it."

WHAT?!

This is NOT happening.

"The hell you are."

"We have friends, Hedgehog--friends that we could hire to toast you, even in prison.  You let us in on this or you're fucking dead."

"Listen, asshole, we've already planned our--"

"You let us in on this," Vector breathes, steadily, "or we'll do worse than kill you."

I scoff.  "Oh yeah?  You'll do what?"

Vector nods to the security guard in the doorway.

"We'll tell HIM."

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	19. Anticlimax

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**19. Anticlimax.**

[SONIC, Stephen Zacharus]

I don't bother showing Eggman's "Bwa-Ha-Ha-I-Know-Something-You-Don't-Know" notes to anybody anymore.  It's obvious to me that I'm on my own.

In total, I've received four of those letters over the past two weeks.  They're all pretty much just variations on the first, so they're hardly worth repeating.  Anyway, the point is that Eggman is *really* enjoying himself over this… which could prove to be his downfall.  I wonder if he has any idea that tomorrow I'll more than likely be battering and frying his fat ass.

Then again, since that incident in the weight room a couple days ago, I haven't been taking *anything* for granted… and right now I'm talking to Tails in the Visitor's Room--for the first time in about two weeks, come to think of it--making damn sure that everything is going to plan.

"…so then me and Kays'll be waiting at a corner in the car," he's saying, voice hushed slightly (as if the fucking dumbass guards are even awake), "hacking into the system and overriding it from my laptop.  I'm gonna need to give you instructions during the whole thing, though.  Have you gotten that letter from me in the mail?"

"Um… no, I don't think so…"

"You should be getting it today, then.  Inside the envelope you'll find a little ear bug.  It's small and it's designed to rest comfortably in your ear canal; you probably won't even notice it.  I programmed it to register your voice along your jawbone, so you can just talk normally and I'll hear you.  That way…"

"Hold on, now.  You sent this thing to me in the mail?  What if somebody gets suspicious and opens it up or some shit?  They x-ray all of our mail here, you know."

"Don't worry about that, I've taken care of it.  The letter is from your Aunt Martha, who found a new specimen in South America for your garbanzo bean collection."

"Garbanzo bean collection…?"

"Well, I had to think of *something*."

"I have to hand it to ya, kid," I say, laughing, "you're somethin' else.  Hell, I don't even *have* an Aunt Martha."

I see in his eyes, though, that something's bothering him.

"What's the matter?"

"It's nothing," he says, waving his hand dismissively.  

"It doesn't *sound* like nothing."

"Trust me, it's nothing.  It's just… well, I dunno."

Uh oh.

Goddamn it, this is not what I want to hear…

"What is it?" I ask.

"Well… it's just that things are getting a little more complicated now and… I dunno.  I'm just not sure if we can, you know, do this *tonight* anymore…"

No.

You're shitting me.

This can't be happening.

………

Oh, fuck, who am I kidding?  I knew this was gonna happen since day one.

But I'm not giving up so easily.

"Tails, there's no question about it: I *have* to get out tonight.  If I don't, it means…"  Surprisingly, I have the presence of mind stop myself; the last thing I want to do is scare the kid into screwing up or something.  "Well, that's not important.  Let's just say that things are heating up around here.  BAD.  I can't *afford* to stay here after tonight…"

Tails tries to look calm about the whole thing, but he's sure doing a piss-poor job. "It's probably just… well, nothing," he laughs, albeit nervously.  "It's only a little complication, that's all.  A screw up.  It can be fixed.  The important thing's that we *are* getting you out of here sooner or later, and…"

He's hiding something.

"What the hell is the fucking *problem*?" I finally blurt out, interrupting him.  "For some reason you're not telling me everything."

He looks up at me directly for the first time during our conversation.

"Well," he says quietly, "then I guess we *both* have secrets, don't we?"

________________________

When I get back to my cell I find that my mail has been kindly dumped onto the floor just inside the steel bars, courtesy of Mr. Congeniality himself.  Only three letters this time, though.  He could've made a worse mess, I suppose.

Oh, Christ, I'm actually thinking *optimistically*.  I guess by the time that happens you know you've been in prison for a little too long.

First letter: one of my semiweekly "You suck, Sonic!" hate letters that I've grown all too familiar with.  I toss it in the trash without reading too far into it.  They all say the same damn thing, anyway.

Second letter: an envelope from "Aunt Martha" containing a postcard from some unpronounceable city in Venezuela--with a small, gray, bean-looking thing taped to the front and something on the back that looks roughly like Tails' handwriting:

_Sonic,_

_Just got back from __Venezuela__ and picked up something that made me think of you.  It's the rare Gray Garbanzo Bean that can be found only in select areas in __South America__.  I know you just love collecting exotic beans!  Local legend says that if you put a Gray Garbanzo in your ear, you'll sprout into a beanstalk and soar into the sky.  Whatever that's supposed to mean.  _

_And do write to your auntie once and a while.  You know very well that I miss you dreadfully._

_Hugs!  XOXOXO_

_Aunt Martha._

That letter was almost too well done.  The kid scares me sometimes.

In any case, I remove the small device from the postcard and put it in my ear--which is surprisingly more comfortable than I was expecting.  I didn't see any sort of on/off button or similar, so I'm assuming that the thing just turns itself on.  Or something.

Third letter: a heavy parchment envelope with my name and cell number in elegant, fountainpen cursive.  No return address.  

Joy, another one.  Lucky me.

I'm this close to just throwing it away, but curiosity gets the better of me.

_Dearest Hedgehog,_

_Feeling the burn now?  In case you haven't noticed, the body count for the Vampire Murders has increased to seven._

Thanks, asshole, but I *am* allowed to read the newspaper all by myself.

_Let's recap just for fun, shall we?: Nack the Weasel, Manic the Hedgehog, Meaters Prower, Sandra Acorn, Rotor Walrus, Mina Mongoose…_

Mina.  Now there's a name I could almost give a shit about.  We had a brief relationship a while back--nothing serious, but it was something.  I guess it didn't mean much to her, though. The bitch wouldn't even talk to me at the trial.  Funny how nobody ever wants to listen to *my* side of the story.

_…and, just last night, Dr. Bookshire Draftwood.__  The heat is on, as they say.  Sooner or later, as you well know, the little red slash-marks on my list will be drawn through considerably more significant names.  It's only a matter of time._

_Before I leave you again, however, I think I'll let you in on a little secret.  You're in prison, after all, and it's not like anybody is even going to believe you if you try to tell someone.  You see, as it turns out, my little assassin duo *does* have something of a weakness that I couldn't avoid…_

You're kidding.

Eggman isn't *that* stupid.

…………

…is he?

_Drooling with anticipation, are you?_

What the hell do *you* think?

_Well surprise, Hedgehog!  I've seen too many James Bond films to fall for *that* one!_

Fuck you too, asshole.

_Well, I do have quite an agenda ahead of me today, so I'd best be concluding this letter.  Do have it sent back to me, would you?  Oh, wait.  I didn't leave a return address, did I?_

Ha, ha.

_Adieu._

_R._

Trashcan.

________________________

I stay up all night waiting for that little earbug to turn on--for Tails to read me the master plan, for the electric bolts on my cell to magically release so that I can get the hell outta here, clean and quiet.  For a while I actually manage to convince myself that this is really happening tonight.

It's five o'clock in the morning now.  Through the half-assed little window above my bed, I can see that the sun is just starting to come up.

I'm never getting out of here, I realize.

Never.

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	20. The farewell

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**20. The farewell. **

[AMY, Sean Catlett]

Flash freeze. 

The way I feel right now, it's hard to describe but easy to feel all the same. Almost like I've been an ice cube in a freezer all my life and then one day someone throws me into warm water. Cracks appear along my surface and I cling to whoever is nearby. 

"Don't worry. They'll leave us alone," Rouge says, her arm losing circulation. The gun wedged in her pocket still feels cold even through all of the clothing. 

After the rape, I started having panic attacks and frightened outbursts at random intervals, screaming at a desk lamp or a street light. Anything phallic shaped, probably. After awhile they went away, but now, another feels like it's creeping, waiting around the corner, biding until the strike. . . 

"I know where we can go," she says, clutching me tighter than I'm clutching her. We look like two dirty street urchins from any number of historical stage plays, but at least we're in a part of town where we blend in. Besides, it doesn't really matter who sees us. Fuck my acquaintances. 

Knowing your own mortality really puts life in perspective, doesn't it?

Along the way to wherever we're going, we pass several newsstands and televisions screens, and they're all talking about the "serial killer" loose around town. They're still calling them the "Vampire" something or other killings, whatever the assfuck, and now the media is concentrating on a single witness that has come forth. 

Sandra's OTHER girlfriend, no doubt. Cheating bitch . . . . . God rest her soul. The press conference will be held tonight. The police will address the public with newfound information. Been there, done that.

Where we end up going is a dockyard, the kind where shacks and stores selling bait and whatnot for the sea-bound ships rest right on the water, over piers. They all look like they've been dipped in wooden varnish and sprayed with dirt, despite the water. Everything looks dried out like a senior citizen's skin, from all the salt. It's on dock 82 that Rouge turns onto and we walk to the very end, the only ones out this far, and she knocks on the door to the shack. The door creaks instead of pounds. 

"Honey, why don't you go over there and look at the fish," she says to me, circles under her eyes. I smile at her.

"I'm not a kid anymore, you know. You can just tell me if you want to go away." She smiles back, and I turn.

The air tastes like a lemon drop, the salt drying my skin, turning me into the wood. Making me look old, like the way I think. But even now I don't know what age I'm supposed to be. 

The pier is low enough to the water, and the moon is bright enough for me to see myself looking down, searching for fish. But the water is unusually black at night, and it looks like oil. 

Oil . . . 

This is reminding me of things that I don't want to think about, but this place . . . this place is too inspirational, too poetic. Free thought is expected. The horizon, at the point where the sea looks like it curves down and off the planet, forever, where the end of the world is, it's so clear. There's no smog from the city behind me. The stars light the way, along with the broken moon's white flesh. It used to be, when I was a lot younger in the mindset sense of the word, I'd lose myself in the stars, and send out a silent thanks for the moon being so easy to look at. Bright, but not harsh. I could stare at it all my life and not go blind from it directly. But now, because of Robotnik, it's no longer whole. So broken that it's no longer beautiful, but only reminds me of what happens to everyone and fuck, fuck no, I'm crying.

Wait. It's raining. Yeah. Must be raining. Those drops that hit the water can't be coming from me. That sullen, downcast face isn't mine but the moon's. It's full again. Everything's fine . . . everything's fine . . . 

No. It's not.

The baby is kicking. I'm almost seven months along and I don't look like I've gained much of anything. Possible birth defects. There's genes to consider, there's environment. I'd be a bad mother, since I have no fucking clue what I'm doing. The baby is going to grow up just like me, just like me, turn out just . . . like . . . me.

Fine. I am crying. 

Doesn't matter anyway. 

I'm sobbing violently, the crying echoing into the night, when Rouge appears beside me, also reflected in the water, glowing like the moon. She doesn't even try to console me. She just sits with me, watching the water, until miraculously, we both get up at the same time and we leave. 

Goodbye.

_________________________

"This isn't so bad . . ."

A dumpster, lined with blankets and pillows. The outside is labeled as being a chemical waste bin, so no one will even try to open it. Just in case, though, there is a lock on the outside that is supposed to be keyed, and the inside can be pushed open as easily as a door. This was offered to Rouge by Dack, her FBI friend, who probably has a thing for her but it's hard to tell. 

The inside is dark, but I've adjusted to the light enough to see Rouge enough to try and talk to her.

"Just goes to show that you still have your fair share of tricks up your sleeve . . ." 

Fuck, this isn't working. She has not been responding to my attempts at conversation. She's just been staring at me. 

Damn it. 

Why can't I just thank her? Why can't I just let her know that I love her, that she is the best thing to have ever happened to me, that . . .

"i . . . i want to talk." Rouge says, the cancer scratching at her throat. 

It's almost insulting, since that's what I had been trying to do for the last ten minutes, but . . . . it's so feeble sounding, so frightened. I hope that this won't be another relapse.

"Sure," is the only thing I can think of to say. 

"I want to talk about something."

"Sure. Anything you want." I scoot closer to her, resting my head on her legs and staring up at her. She keeps focused on where I was sitting, not really seeing anymore.

"I . . . I'm sorry for the way I've been acting. It was selfish of me to take the cowards way out . . ." She shivers, like she wants to cry. I know who she's thinking about and she hates associating "coward" with him, but we both know that she's right. "I know you've been in that drawer before, looking for medicine to dose yourself on, and we both know that nothing of the kind is in there. At least, not literally." 

She pauses, takes a deep breath. She also takes our gun out of her pocket and sets it down in front of her. Then, continues.

"There was only one bullet in it. And every day that he had not come back to us, I . . . I'd spin the chamber, put it to my head and pull the trigger. I know, I know, it's stupid, but . . .  I wanted to join him, wherever he was."

We're still near the docks, so the air feels misty with a touch of salt. "You really love him, don't you?"

Rouge nods, starts to run her fingers through my hair. "Even if what he did was selfish, I'm sure, in his mind, his intentions were well placed. And that's what . . . that's what stopped me the last time." A tear drop hits my eyes. It so warm that I barely feel it, but I don't blink, despite the stinging. "I realized that he wasn't coming back. He's gone. He left us. And right as I pulled the trigger . . . I moved. I chickened out. I'm too weak to do something like that."

It's easy to think of what to say after that. It's practically set up enough that it's cliché. "Weakness would have been to go through with it. It takes someone strong to deal with someone like me every day." This is the most we've ever spoken about this, in all the months we've been together. 

"Never sell yourself short, Amy. You're still the best company I could ever hope to get." She smiles. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

The whole thing is bittersweet, really, because I know she's lying. What she wants is for me to get out on my own, to be dependant on only myself. She wants a normal life, a real daughter, a real husband, but she knows she can't have it. But this . . . This conversation has gotten me thinking about him. I haven't done that in a long time, I know, but it seems like it's all I ever think about. More than Sonic, more than Tails, more than . . . 

Weird. 

He was my first real distraction from Sonic, the first guy I thought I could compare accurately to. Where Sonic fell short, he made up. The first of our group to actually let stupid, trivial shit truly slide. It didn't matter to him, and what I saw in him was part childish infatuation, part realization that this was the type of guy I wanted to end up with. 

Quite a catch. 

I can see that Rouge would have been really lucky to end up with him. Had it worked out . . . . 

Especially after weeks of swallowing Sonic's cock fluid did I finally realize the significance of a guy who actually listens to you, someone that doesn't just roll over and fall asleep afterwards, someone that actually matters. But now . . . 

Now . . . kiss all of that goodbye. Sonic made all men the same in my mind, just as he made sex with them the same. I suppose the reason I'm who I am now isn't because I hate men. More that I'm afraid to try liking another one of "them" again. The prospect of being hurt is too much, and with women, it's like they're not even real people. They're facsimiles. Sex with them doesn't seem like real sex to me. And I suppose that's probably wrong . . . 

"The FBI is after me again," Rouge says, shattering the silence. "Only this time I'm a suspect in a case they're doing. They want me to talk but they don't want me to talk to them. It's a government thing."

"I don't think we have to worry about them anymore," I say, thinking about how true that really is. They are the least of our problems. 

"Yeah. Dack told me that they have new leads to follow, and that they'd leave me alone for the time being, hence why we aren't being interrogated right now."

"You sound better already." She's coming out of her funk, so quickly that I can hear the incline in her voice.

"I have you to thank for that."

"What makes you say that?"

"Oh, come on, I know you, Amy. The ability to unconsciously tag along with any fight against 'bad guys' is ingrained within."

"I think you're full of shit," I smile.

"Maybe. But we both know who's right."

My arms slither around her waist, and I bury my face into her stomach before she sees my crying. "I love you, Rouge."

"Call me mom." She yawns. "I was beginning to get used to that . . ."

And we both fall asleep.

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	21. Property

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**21. Property.**

[SONIC, Stephen Zacharus]

You know what the funny thing about prison is?

It's like Hell… only with plastic trays.

I fucking *hate* prison.

It's lunch time right now.  Go figure.  I'm standing in line in the cafeteria, waiting for the bitchy prison cook to shovel a portion of processed, gooey shit for me.  I could have sworn I saw that stuff squirming on the guy's plate in front of me…

I hear my so-called meal plop onto my own plate.

"Thanks," I sneer at the woman, and I'm on my way.

I seat myself as usual-at the corner of some distant table, away from everyone else.  The other guys are probably saying that I think I'm too good for them are some shit, but I don't care.  I hate every single living organism in this fucking shithole, and I'll be damned if I'm forced to play their games simply for social benefits.

Oh, yeah--and did I mention that Tails didn't spring me last night like he was supposed to?  No, wait, we discussed this already.  Nevermind.

"Hey, Hedgehog.  We want a few words with ya."

I recognize the voice.

*Shit*.

Vector takes a seat across from me, surrounded by the rest of his damn Chaotix gang.  They look pissed.

"I'm not in the mood to talk right now.  We can talk some other time."

"Wrong, Hedgehog," Vector says, leaning in close.  "We'll talk *now*.  You've got yourself some explaining to do--like when the hell your buddy's planning to spring you outta here.  You said that we were bustin' out fucking *yesterday* and nothin' happened.  What's the deal here?"

"Just cool it, Vector," I say, gritting my teeth.  "I'm sure he has a perfectly good explanation for…"

"Don't give me that bullshit," the crocodile growls impatiently.  "You been *lyin'* to us, haven't you?  Go on.  Admit it.  There's nobody coming to bust you out, is there?"

What the hell?

"Now hold on just a goddamn minute…"

But Vector isn't finished.  "That day in the weight room you just made it all up--something just crazy enough to keep us from kickin' the living shit out of you."

"The fuck I did," I spit, standing up.  "Fuck, YOU were the one who..."

"You sit your ass down, Hedgehog.  We're not through with you yet."

The other Chaotix are silent--standing threateningly behind Vector, glaring at me, cracking their knuckles.  

Why does all the bad shit have to happen to ME?!!

"Listen, Vector, you've got it all wrong…"

Nothing I say is going to make a bit of difference, of course; Vector has already decided what he wants to believe.  Hell, he's not even paying attention to me.  It takes me a few moments to realize what has caught his interest.

My Walkman is clipped to the belt loop of my uniform-headphones around my neck--regurgitating some random station that I'd dialed to just before coming here.  

No.  Fuck no.  

You're not taking my music from me, you fucking reptilian shithead.

"We might be able to reach an agreement after all, Hedgehog.  Hand over your 'phones and we might leave you alone for a few days."

My answer comes thoughtlessly, venomously.  I regret it as soon as the words leave my mouth.

"Suck my dick, you cheap motherfucker."

And the next thing I know, Vector has me by the throat and pinned against one of the barred windows.  Half a dozen guards come rushing up with nightsticks.  One of them even has a shockprod, I think, but to tell you the truth, I'm paying more attention to the alligator's goddamn death grip.  I can't fucking BREATHE…

"Vector," a guard says, nightstick ready, "cool it.  Step away from him.  We don't want any trouble in here, okay?"

"There's no trouble," Vector says.  He grins, pocketing my Walkman and putting on my headphones.  "No trouble at all, boys.  Just taking back my property.  Ain't that right, Hedgehog?"

He lets go, shoves me against the wall, and then turns and walks away like nothing ever happened.

This can't be happening.

He took the only thing that's kept me from going insane in this shithole.

He took what was helping me get to sleep every night.

He took the gift that my best friend--my ONLY friend--gave to me so that I could remember him between visits.

And that asshole just grabbed it off of me like it was some goddamn toy.

Well, fuck him.

FUCK HIM.

I'm not going to let him get away with that.  NOBODY takes my shit, FUCKING *NOBODY*.

I run at him with everything I've built up and tackle him from behind.

"YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!  THAT'S FUCKING *MINE*, YOU SCALY ASSHOLE PIECE OF SHIT, I'LL FUCKING *KILL YOU*!!!!!!"

The other Chaotix are wise to keep out of my way as I slam the shit out of their buddy, socking him in the mouth and kneeing him twice in the nuts.  I pin him onto the ground, kneeling on his chest, and start punching him in the face like I can't fucking stop.  I can hear the guards rushing over--feel their nightsticks collide into my arms and ribs and back--but I won't quit.  Suddenly, I feel this screaming pain in my side that shoots and convulses through my whole body: the shockprod probably.  I can't stop, though, can't stop can't stop can't stop can't stop…

A few teeth clatter to the floor.

There's blood on my hands now.  A lot of blood.

I manage to slap that fucker's head against the linolium a couple times before the guards finally manage to separate us.  Then I feel something crack against my skull.

NnIgHtStIcKcKckKcakdaasdfalksjfasdfsdflkjsssshhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitttttttttttttttttttttttttttt……………………………………………………………………………………………………

Everything's starting to black out now i thinkie i go sleepy okaynightnight.

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	22. The new plan

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**22. The new plan. **

[AMY, Sean Catlett]

Morning. 

No, wait, afternoon.

Rouge is still sleeping when I wake up, and I do my best to quietly slip out. My intention is to try and scrounge up a measly late breakfast for us both, and possible some soap so we can bathe in the ocean. 

It's still early enough for the light to be scarce, overcast, and tinted blue, but already the signs of ship rush hour, whatever they call it, are apparent. It's louder than a rock concert at present time. The dumpster is almost sound proof. 

From pier 82, way down by the end, Dack shoots a leveled glare right at my head, and I can tell even from this far away that he's frowning. He must not like competition with his little Rougey. 

Because of his hospitality, I don't make any rude gesture, and instead I just smile and wave at him. I turn before I see his reaction and I keep walking. 

The crowd is a sparse gathering of onlookers, vagrants mostly, term used loosely, trying to peddle their pathetic wares for a scrap of food. Most of them wear only rags around their waists and chest, hiding the shame of being naked and alone, utilizing hair growth. This way, they all look the same. 

It doesn't hit me all that hard until I walk right through them, and nobody even gives me a second glance. Looking down at myself I realize that my clothes are just as dirty as theirs, that I have nothing of value on me to take, and they all know it. Already I feel the tears start to come again . . .

NO.

Enough of this. 

I've had it. 

This bullshit, this hiding away fuckery, this cowards way out, this ruining of my friends' life . . .  well . . . 

No. More. 

If they want me, they can come and fucking get me. 

_________________________

Plan. 

Stratagem. 

A pathetic one, but it's all I have.

I'm on the roof of a warehouse when I see them, almost invisible in the twilight, but their colors, their colors, their familiar shapes, and their appalling predictability give them away. To anyone else, they would look like aircraft, or a snobby rich asshole's new hobby. 

But he, they, don't fool me. 

Disregarding all else, I start to flail my arms and scream. I've been waiting for them to appear for hours, and finally, as the twilight hours descend . . .

What pushed me over the edge? How did I end up choosing this?

Sandra.

What if the same thing happened to Rouge? Or Tails?

Or . . . 

I don't want my baby to end up like me. I don't want to bring something up in a world where shit like this can happen every day and no one can stop it. Murder is as regular as the changing of the hours. 

And nobody even gives a shit. 

Fuck that. I'd take non-existence, I'd take oblivion over this hell. 

I'm doing everyone a favor here.

And if I win?

Well, then yippee. Hooray. 

No loss, no gain, just a benefit. I think of it as second prize. 

Both the black and the red dots swirl in the air, a dance like the tango, and they search for their next prey, someone else that me or Tails or Rouge knows. Someone that Robotnik saw staring at him funny. That son of a bitch. 

The two lights zig zag lines, arcing left and right, ever so slowly. They are packed closely together, hugging. One obviously needs the other for flight. 

Why doesn't anyone notice this? 

I keep flailing my arms, trying to get them to come after me. My feet hit the cinderblock I have assembled at my feet, but I keep jumping. 

The two dots suddenly dive bomb into the thick of the city, and they disappear. Where they are now is nowhere near me, and my hails have failed. Fuck.

I was supposed to call Tails today. Shit, I knew I forgot something, though I don't think I would have had the change for it anyway.

I swear, that boy worries about me too much, and every time I'm out on my own he thinks he has to hold my hand. His affection for me is too obvious sometimes, and I know that I can't appreciate it but yet I don't shoot him down from his cloud. I keep telling myself that he's like a brother. Or a homosexual guy friend. 

This could be the arrogant depression talking, of course, but sometimes it just feels good to vent. 

Hmmm. Maybe this time I can convince him to try and hack into their communications systems or something, or construct a beacon, or . . . 

They're back. 

This time, the two lights head straight up into the air and they split, coming apart in a giant V. One of them, the red one, hovers low over the city in the opposite direction, while the black one drops back into the thick of the buildings. It's obvious what they're doing. Searching, scanning, probing. They must not have found who they're looking for, and now they're splitting up and trying to find them.

If it's me they're looking for, I don't know it. Hell, it could be Rouge they want. But fat chance they're going to get her without going through me first.  

The building I'm on is high enough to oversee much of the alleys and buildings on the docks, towering above fire escapes and wet newspapers. Fuck, it seems like the bulk of my life has been spent in alleys, running from something or another . . . 

I'm not retreating this time. 

The red light shrinks away from me, going the opposite direction, and black reappears in short bursts back above the buildings, sticking to the cover of the structures and running in the alleys. 

Perfect. 

I reach down next to the ledge and I pick up a giant piece of cinderblock, leftover from the construction site a couple of blocks away. I pick a side, any side, and I lean over, block high above my head, and I wait. I watch the ground and the area around it and I wait for him . . . 

Black. 

The one who killed Sandra. 

Sucked the blood right out of her. 

Dead. You're fucking dead, you hear me?

If I survive this one, and the second one, I'm coming after you next. 

And I'm not stopping. 

Wait . . .

Wait . . . 

NOW!!

_________________________

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. 

The block scores a direct hit on the bastard's head. He thrusters immediately cut out, disabled, he lets out this ear shattering screech, and he lands face first with the most beautiful sounding crunch of metal. I seriously almost laugh out loud. But he's not all the way dead. No fucking way that he is. This is only the beginning. He's probably just playing possum. Predictable villain. Too easy.

I have to keep up this false bravado, this cocky attitude that gets on everyone's nerves. Just like Sonic. I know why he did it now. How he got used to being an asshole to everyone. It leaves no room for fear. Confidence compensation. 

I can't do it as well as him, so even though I'm grinning like an idiot, I'm shaking, nervous, and my eyes probably show my fear.

I guess I just don't care enough anymore. Not enough to stop myself, anyway. 

Down the fire escape. Through the grinded metal. Across the wet pavement. Over the broken glass and concrete. I reach his lifeless form, his memory encroaching, black metal form. Dead already. Yeah right, my ass. 

From his feet, I lean as far as I can over him, closer to his head than I would have wanted, then I whisper,

"Lights out, mother fucker."

And just as quick, I take off in the opposite direction, his feet moving up to try and catch me in the chin, send the bone into my brain. Sucking my blood. He's gonna have to try harder than that.

You wouldn't believe how fun this is. Sure, it's more frightening than anything that's ever happened to me. I mean, I could die. I. Could. Die. Think like playing a video game with only one life left, your wife in your office building, walking up the floors while you're fucking your secretary, think masturbating during a family function, think driving drunk past a police station, wailing voice and screaming obscenities. Whatever works for you. Multiply it by ten. You're nowhere near the prospect of discovered mortality, nowhere near knowing death is right behind you. 

Funny. I would have thought I'd panic by now, but this is surprisingly calculated and . . .

Wait, where the fuck am I going?

SHIT!!!

I didn't think this far ahead, obviously. Now I have to make up a plan on the spot. Fuck. Fuck. Turn left. Run some more. Black brick, looks all the same. Turn right. Left. Roll. Dodge. Dive. Don't look back, don't look back, think of water as a possible means of dispatch. Remember Rouge, Baby, Rouge, Tails, tails, tails oh fuck getting tired running out of breath ouch trash can ow hurts stupid rusted metal keep going keep going im dead im dead im dead dead dead dead

What the fuck?!

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	23. Hero

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**23. Hero.**

NOTE: This is segment is a songfic. Song lyrics look [_like this_]. Deal with it.

[TAILS, David Macintyre] 

I missed you, heaven.

  
Typically the human attitude during an experience like this one would degenerate into something not too far from 'Fuck the world, nothing matters, I'm just gonna fly'. Or something like that.

I'd probably be the same, but I'm different. Because I know that without the world, I'd have nothing to fly over. Nobody to feel better than. Nothing to be above.

Without a Hell to fly over, there'd be no sense of Heaven in the sky.

My tails are finally working again, allowing me to semi-safely search for Kays' rendezvous point. To my knowledge, he went through with plan, and picked up my laptop on the way there—using some kind of ploy of his. Collecting for the family or whatever.

My nerves are somewhat less steely than usual as I search unsuccessfully for Kays' place, or moreover his car parked outside. The thought of the job ahead makes my stomach lurch strongly, and the weight of the equipment in the bag on my shoulder seem even heavier. This definitely isn't going to be easy.

Ugh…

Now I KNOW I need to calm down.

I'm getting airsick.

I need some music.

I descend steadily and rather unceremoniously touch down on a nearby motel roof with a dull thud. I flick on the portable radio clipped to my belt loop and search for some decent tunes.

Hmm…

Not in the mood for oldies…

R&B isn't my thing…

I was never a huge pop fan…

Upbeat feel-good music sucks…

Enrique Inglesias? That's not even funny.

Normally I don't mind rap but I don't think even that can help me now. I need something more mellow…

Hmm…

Hmm…

There.

I hear the DJ mention a specific song playing next as I take to the air again. I try to calm my nerves and resist another sick lurch. I begin searching.

My unofficial theme song starts. Short drum crescendo. Guitar beats in and starts playing.

[_I am so high, I can hear Heaven…._]

Eh. It still sounds like he's on drugs to me, but the song is good, shut up. Hmm.

I look down.

Oh, how appropriate.

I was supposed to be afraid this would happen, but I'm not.

Instead it seems… relieving.

Liberating.

Amy's down there in the alley, running like hell from the black robot, Shade, who to my knowledge came screaming out of nowhere and around the corner to chase her. Fuck, that thing is quick.

What now?

[_Yeah I AM so high, I can hear Heaven…._]

If a tree falls in the woods, and nobody's around to hear it, does it make a sound?

Probably, because there was that little sparrow hovering around up above, who either thought himself too small and weak or just didn't feel like helping.

You see my analogy, of course.

I turn a deaf ear to her cries for help, thinking instead of how much is being lifted off of my chest about her.

[_Whoa, but HEAVEN… no, HEAVEN don't hear ME…!_]

She was ALWAYS being a pain.

ALWAYS thinking she was a fucking superhero. 

ALWAYS tagging along, trying to 'help'.

[_And they say that a HERO could save us, I'm NOT gonna stand here and wait…!_]

And ALWAYS in the end getting in the way, as a result. Without fail she was clinging to our arms by the end of it.

[_I'll hold onto the WINGS of the eagles, WATCH as we all fly away…!_]

Well, fuck her, no more of that… this is her own fault.

…

I've got to do something. That's all there is to it.

Everything runs through my mind now in practically a split second as I land on the nearest roof. Kays and his rant finally begin to make sense.

Psychology.

When Sonic ended up in jail, I subconsciously stopped following his example and went for the nearest role model, my parents, in fear of making the same mistakes he made. I wondered where my will to help out went.

But it becomes clear now.

[_Someone told me, love would all save us…._]

Maybe he never learned from his mistake, but I can.

I don't HAVE to make the same stupid moves he did. 

I don't HAVE to end up in prison.

I mean, he isn't a bad guy. He just fucked up. His ideas still make sense.

[_But how can that be? Look what love gave us…._]

My mind's trying to tell me not to help, now. I can feel it. I'm losing motivation.__

I'm not going to let it. The sight of Shade deflecting a projectile trash can and knocking Amy spinning to the ground—several feet away—just… GETS to me somehow.

Sonic's not here. I've got to fill in, right?

[_A world full of KILLING…._]

What kind of fucking person rebels against Sonic?

What kind of idiot doesn't just ignore, but goes against the man who's an idol and a hero to millions?

[_And blood  SPILLING that won't ever change…!_]

And instead of going with the idea of helping out, putting others before myself, and upholding justice wherever possible, I'm following my parents—who hate my friend just because she doesn't have money and would want me to just watch her die, now.

[_And they say that a HERO could save us, I'm NOT gonna stand here and wait…!_]

What sort of idiot am I?

Listen to the fucking song. I've got to do something about this.

I leap high into the air…

And come careening down toward Shade, shoulders jutting and bracing myself for the impact.

CLACK.

…ouch…

"What the fuck..?! Tails?!"

Shade is momentarily displaced by the impact, opening a window of opportunity by just a crack. Trying desperately to ignore the pain shooting through my spine and throbbing in my shoulder, I whirl around and grab Amy.

"Come on!"

[_I'll hold onto the WINGS of the eagles, WATCH as we all fly away….EyAH ha haaaa…_]

I attempt rather pathetically to hoist Amy under my arms in true hero fashion, but despite how much stronger I've gotten, it ends up looking more like I'm hauling her off to a date rape session. That kid of hers must be making her pretty heavy.

I decide to go back to tradition. I lift her off my arms and let her swing freely down until I can just hold tightly onto her arms. She does the same to mine. The sudden weight drags me down a bit, but I can deal with it.

I'm flying rather slowly due to stiff tails. Shade begins to catch up, jetting behind us on propulsion rockets in his feet. Remind me to salvage those for spare parts if we ever destroy this thing.

I try and go higher, pulling Amy to a secluded alcove near a parking garage. I set her down.

She looks at me, in shock and relief, and sits down, shaken. She motions at my headphones. I pull one side out so I can hear.

"…Th…thanks…"

[_NOW THAT THE world isn't ending, it's love that I'm sending to you…._]

"I am never doing that again until you get that thing out of your stomach."

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't look annoyed. It would seem she's too relieved.

"Now what do we do?" she asks. "That thing isn't gone."

I was afraid of this.

Unfortunately, my original plan of taking Shade down was, now that I can think straight, waterlogged in adrenaline and testosterone. Now I'm not sure what to do.

Take him down? Yeah, right, with what? I haven't even got my bat. And even if I did it would just snap against the steel.

[_It isn't the LOVE of a hero, THAT'S why I fear it won't do…._]

I hear the mechanical hum of his jets getting closer. He'll find us soon.

Well.

I guess there's really only one thing I can do.

Fight him. Or die in the attempt.

[_And they say that a HERO could save us, I'm NOT gonna stand here and wait…!_]

I hand Amy my backpack.

"What do I do with this?"

"If this doesn't work, I want you to take that to Kays' apartment and give it to him. You know where he lives."

"If WHAT doesn't work?"

"I'm going to fight it, Amy."

Insane pause.

"You're WHAT?!"

"I'm going to fight that robot."

Another insane pause.

"Are you fucking nuts?!"

"Yes."

[_I'll hold onto the WINGS of the eagles, WATCH as we all fly away…!_]

I practically explode out of the little annex and into the empty back street, my eyes searching for Shade.

I see him.

His glowing amber eyes pierce the dim evening light, softly illuminating his matte-black head and chrome red stripes, giving his metal form the presence of an oncoming vehicle. How fitting.

He makes full use of that presence and rushes at me. I leap quickly out of the way and he careens underneath me, going several feet past before braking harshly and whipping around.

I land and duck urgently while he soars over my head, rolling through the air in a ball. He hits the ground and keeps rolling, then suddenly turns around in a way not unlike a motorcycle. He stays curled up.

I see where he's going with this.

As quickly as I can, I bolt over to a gray concrete wall and stand a couple of feet away from it.

[_And they're WATCHIN' us…_]

[_(Watchin')_]

[_They're WATCHING us… As we all FLY away, yeah-ah-ah!_]

He does exactly what I expected. He does Sonic's famous spin-dash, or something similar. The huge chunk of metal belts toward me like the coming train it stands for, allowing me a mere second to leap out of the way and send him colliding through the concrete wall. A mess of bricks, cement blocks, and gravel implodes from the wall.

Gathering my breath, I rush in after him before the adrenaline wears off.

He's dented, scratched, gouged, and dinged, but he doesn't show a sign of giving up. Just standing up from his curl and turning around to meet my eyes. He's a fair distance away, mind you.

He's blown through the wall of the old parking garage.

Now he's on my territory.

I think as quickly as possible and recover a suitably sized chunk of cement. He rushes at me.

[_And they're WATCHIN' us…_]

[_(Watchin')_]

[_They're WATCHING us… As we all FLY away, yeah-ah-ah!_]

Instead of doing what I expect the situation would require, I just go for it directly.

Instead of ducking behind a pillar and ensuing in a melee of fancy footwork and pillar smashing, I just rush straight back at him, arm outstretched.

The brick meets his head, toppling him backwards. I soar horizontally over him and crash into the ground, to stand up and quickly run over to his form. He tries to get up.

"Not this time, asshole!"

I slam the brick into his chest, caving a sizeable dent into the plating.

Eggman makes armor for his bots that can withstand lasers, bullets, other robots, collisions…

But not the repeated pummeling with cement by an enraged 13-year-old boy.

I take the cement to every part of his sorry fucking form, leaving caves in his plating everywhere. Feet, legs, arms, torso, head, you name it. After about fifteen strikes I've knocked out his foot propulsion, practically disabled both forearms, unearthed the circuitry in his torso, destroyed one of his visual receptors and loosened the plating on his head.

I just continue.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

After that he won't even move. He just makes weak whirring noises and grinding sounds, sparks flying from his body and eyes. The burn feels good.

He tries to move his head, instead just making stutter and jut gradually in my direction.

He stares up blankly at me.

"IS THIS ALL YOU KNOW?!" I scream at him.

"DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING BUT PAIN AND DEATH AND KILLING?! IS THIS JUST A FUCKING *GAME* TO YOU?!

"YOU KILLED MY FRIENDS, YOU ATTACKED MY FAMILY, AND NOW…"

I can't think of anything else to say.

His voice crackles softly.

"Identity… unspecified," he drones.

"Tails, you cock-licker! Don't you fucking forget it!"

Silence for a moment.

"Miles… Tails… Prower…?" he says, making it sound like a question.

"Damn right!" I slam the cement into his forehead again, making his remaining eye flicker.

"Objective… 7… failed," his speaker hums weakly, giving it an air of defeat.

That's it.

Clang.

I tear the metal plating from his head and knock it off totally with the block, exposing his computer and cranial equipment.

I take cement to his hardware, slamming the brick into it repeatedly so every little plastic piece, every copper piece, everything that can be called hardware resembles that of angelfire.com on a good day.

Translation: Absolute shit.

And that's it, by the look of it.

That's the end of it.

Shade is gone.

I stand up from his corpse and breathe heavily, trying to stop myself from throwing up. Stamina.

Too late.

At least, though, I do it on him.

"Jesus, are you alright?"

I turn around weakly and look up at Amy, who's looking down at me cautiously, as if afraid I'll brick her too. She has my bag slung over her shoulder.

I sigh deeply and turn back around, breathing even more heavily.

"I… got him… he's gone," I manage to pant out. Amy smiles warmly, or something similar to it.

"You'll be needing this, I think."

She hands my bag to me.

"You didn't look inside, did you?"

"…no, why?"

"Never mind."

I take the bag gratefully and stand up.

Now I have to get to Kays' place. But I can't just leave Amy here.

"Amy… I'll give you a lift back to Rouge's place. You'll be safer."

She looks around, clutching the sides of her coat onto her body.

"Okay. But stay low, it's cold out."

Sigh. Still Amy, I guess.

But I can't help feeling good about the look she gave me a moment ago.

We walk outside and I take her arms, as she grips mine.

"Your biceps have gotten huge," she says, probably brinking a laugh. "You badass."

"Fish."

I suppose she can't help laughing, so she does.

That's that, I guess.

I start my way back to her apartment and try not to get too relaxed. No doubt the night still has some surprises up its sleeve.

[_And they're WATCHIN' us…_]

[_Watchin__'_]

[_They're WATCHING us… as we all fly away…_]

[_Yeah, yeah…_]

[_Whoa, whoa…_]

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	24. The calm

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

****

**24. The calm. **

[AMY, Sean Catlett]

"Hey . . ."

"What?"

"Thanks." 

"For what? For the ride?

"For everything. For being there."

"Whatever. It's nothing. If you didn't always tag along then I wouldn't have to keep saving you."

"Well, I appreciate it nonetheless."

"What the hell were you doing down there anyway?"

"Staying in a place down by the docks . . . "

"I knew it! You really like that smell, don't you?"

"Tails, I want you to do something for me."

" . . . . . . . . What?

"Just listen to me for a second. I have a plan." He nods, and for the first time that I've ever seen him, in all the time I've known him, is completely attentive. "I . . . I've been thinking about this whole thing. You know, about how they choose their victims, about how they kill, why they kill the way they do . . ." He opens his mouth like he's going to say something, but then decides against it and lets me continue. "And I know how to end it. Quick and easy. So no more have to die. So nobody else has to suffer, and most importantly, so HE doesn't get more of what he wants."

"I don't like where this is going."

"Trust me. I know what I'm doing."

"Okay, but don't expect to just stand aside and let this happen . . ."

"I can take care of myself, ya know."

"Not against this. No way."

I don't know how to fight him on this one. He knows me all too well. 

"I'm not about to let someone I care about take on something like this all alone."

Good enough for me, I guess. If I can't get him to break, I can settle for him bending a little.

"Then you already know what I have in mind?"

". . . Go ahead and tell me."

"Guess." I attempt a coy smile. Keep it light, keep it light.

He takes a deep breath, which sounds slightly angry. The next word he speaks is laced with a mixture of disgust and fury. "Bait."

I nod. "Bait."

"That's bullshit." But the words are hollow. In his mind he knows that I've already made the decision. 

"You either play along or you leave me to do it alone. And you don't want that, now do you?"

Swish.

Goal.

I've won. 

The apartment, somehow still here, somehow left alone by the superintendent, chills and shivers. He glares into me, which is colder than anything I've ever felt in my life, and he storms out of the window, hovering into the air.

"Bitch."

_________________________

It was well into the night by the time I managed to pry all of the wooden boards off of the windows. Every time I pulled one off I found myself not being able to remember when or how I got them up in the first place.

Don't get me wrong. I may be conceited, but I can still learn, from both my mistakes and others' examples. What I can piece together from experience and teachers is that some things actually do require careful thought and planning. Especially when playing defense. 

So, I gather what I can. Hammer, nails, light bulbs, electrical cords, toilet water, blankets, towels, clothes, a broken gun, a bent knife, a couch, an un-working television, two mattresses, a hot plate, broken glass from the window in my room, snow globe, wallet, various kitchen utensils like forks and spoons. All of it mostly wooden, or made of glass. The only thing I leave plugged in is the phone. 

Every uncovered window, I bust with a hammer. The shards fall past the fire escape, through the thin metal grating, breaking into a thousand pieces onto the street below. I don't break them down to their frames, and by the time I'm done with the living room, all of the windows look like mouths, gaping in terror, with sharp, clear teeth lining every edge.

Next. I clear out every other room, bringing my bed and my dresser out, bringing Rouge's bed and cabinet out. All of her clothes and the closet doors. Everything we own is moved into one room, and only then to I close everything else off. The doors are tied closed with the cords of whatever appliance that was in the kitchen. Unlucky for me, all of them have to be pushed open from my side, so it makes it harder to keep them from opening. Oh well. All of this is cannibalized anyway. Can't expect perfection.

The doors that open my way are nailed shut and barricaded with one of the many large hunks of wood. Each object is much lighter after the contents are spilled out onto the street with the broken glass. And no, not all of it goes to waste. Those things big enough to trip over are scattered on the floor, a maze to jump over, dodge, and navigate. The left over nails I just slam into the wall. A bed of spikes. My hammer I toss into the corner near the front door. 

My intention is to make sure the upcoming dance stays in one room only. Every advantage must be taken advantage of. Everything that I could possibly control has to be. 

All of this is done with surprising swiftness. The living room already looks like a battlefield, a post-war tornado. A graveyard or a junkyard, constructed out of little pieces of Rouge's life. Of my life. None of it served a real purpose until now . . .

The only door I don't barricade is the front, because that still serves somewhat of a purpose. A test as well as a failsafe. Every light bulb available, I take and throw down the hallway, some at the other lights hanging along the walls. They all shatter and hit the ground fast, flowing like fine, crystal water in one direction. I throw all of them, both directions, some far, some close. Alternating. The halogen lights from the bathroom arc in giant circles, spinning like a top in mid air, and they come crashing down loudest of all. I run out of ammunition, and the floor is littered with white shredded newspaper that cuts deeper than any bad paper cut, that makes more noise than the couple upstairs. 

Yes. 

Perfect. 

I take off my shoes and throw them down the hall, then slam the door shut. 

It's been an hour or two since Tails dropped me off. This all adds new definition to the word "haste." The reaper should be here for the party any minute now. I hope he bringing the casserole . . .

Joke. Seriously.

For the final touch to complete this masterpiece, I tip the couch over, bottom side facing the window. Over in the corner is a metal pole, about the same length and width, but not weight, as a baseball bat. My only weapon besides my wits. Home-court advantage doesn't count. 

I find myself grinning at all of this. I can't help it. 

But, of course, it fades when I hear the engines approaching. 

It's time. 

One more thing.

I dial the number Tails gave me, and of course, he answers immediately. He sounds scared . . . but not as scared as me. 

And I tell him that they're coming. 

I tell him that he can deal with it if he wants. 

He still has time. 

And I know we're alone on this one, me and Tails. All by ourselves, because the line isn't clicking. No static. No noise. It's clear . . .so clear . . . .

Click. 

.

**To be continued**.Reviews are appreciated.Oh, and visit our site: [http://tdaproject.tripod.com][1].

.

   [1]: http://tdaproject.tripod.com/



	25. Fault

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**25. Fault.**

[SONIC, Stephen Zacharus]

I don't even bother screaming again as another cascade of ice-cold water explodes into the cell.  Lucky me.  I get to stay in this place for another twelve hours.

"Take that hose and shove it up your fucking ASS," I manage to choke out, just before the nozzle withdraws through the little window in the steel door and vanishes.  Well, for the time being, anyway.

As punishment for our little scuffle in the cafeteria, you see, Vector and I were each placed in little cramped confines which are known around here as Wet Rooms.  By now you can probably guess why.  I'd love to report these bastards for inhumane treatment of prisoners, but it's unlikely that I'll ever get the chance.  Yeah, like anybody would really *believe* me, anyway.  God, how I'd love to kick some security guard ass…

My thoughts are suddenly interrupted by a sharp crackling in my ear, followed by a voice.  "Sonic?  Sonic, do you read me?"

It's Tails.

"Loud and clear, li'l bro," I whisper, taking care that nobody outside my cell hears this.

"Here's the plan," Tails says.  "I've frozen the monitors in the security room, so the guard in there shouldn't see any of this.  There's a few guards patrolling the hallways, but none of them are in your immediate vicinity.  I'm hacked into the security system already; I'm gonna open up your cell as soon as I crack this code…"

"Wait," I say.  "I'm not in my regular cell anymore."

"You're not?  Where are you?"

"The Wet Room."

"Huh?"

"It's… um… I don't know, a little cell where they hose us down when they're pissed off at us.  I don't know what they call it."

"That bug in your ear has a tracking device.  Hold on while I try to find you…"  A pause.  Faint typing.  Does this kid really know what he's doing?

"Okay, I see you on the blueprint.  This should only take a few seconds."

He didn't lie.  As if on cue, I hear the door unlatch.

"Tails, you're a genius."

I open the door and step outside my cell quietly, peering to either side of the hallway to make sure the coast is clear.  

"There shouldn't be any guards nearby; I've already checked."

"Hey, just making sure, bro."

"Okay, now once you're outside, turn to your right and…"

"One sec, kid," I say, stopping.  "Where do they keep their guns?"

A long, awkward pause, and then: "*What*?"

I grate my teeth, growing impatient.  "Where do the security guards keep their extra *guns*?  I'm going to need one to get out of here."

"They're in a locked room somewhere on the south end of the compound.  But Sonic…"

"Tell me how to get there."

"Sonic, you won't *need* any weapons to get out of there.  The guard that's on-duty right now on your floor is three hallways east of you; it'll take him at least ten minutes to make his way to your cell.  The escape route that I've planned will…"

"Fuck your escape route, Tails.  If something goes wrong, I don't want to be caught unarmed.  Now TELL ME where to find that fucking weapons room."

Another, longer pause.  "I… I can't crack the security code for that room.  It's too complex.  Just follow my directions and…"

Somehow, I'm not in the mood for the kid's soft side right now.  "Tails, you and I both know that you're lying," I whisper coolly into the receiver.  "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me where to find that room."

___________________

[TAILS, David Macintyre]

Kays climbs back into the car.

"Nice 'n big, just the way you like 'em," he says, pulling off his gloves.

I look over to the fence bordering the prison. He's just used this invention of his, a sort of portable blowtorch attached to a glove, to melt large holes in the three layers of fence lining the complex. Now he's just gotten back in, and turns on the radio.

"Good… ready for him, then?"

"Yeah." 

To make a long story short, it didn't take long to set up the laptop and get onto the prison's security mainframe after Kays had parked the car. A few hundred feet from the fence—walking distance, but too far away to be seen in the dark, or for anyone to give a shit. Currently I'm talking to Sonic, typing away, and listening to him tell me he needs guns. I probably look like Luther Stickell, or Tank. You've seen those movies, I'll take it.

God. I can just IMAGINE him in a white space telling me to get him guns.

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me where to find that room."

Well, maybe this is a LITTLE different.

My fingers tremble.

I don't want him to go anywhere near that room. It's too risky…

I put my hand on the mouthpiece so he can't hear me talking to Kays.

"He's insisting on guns," I say.

"Then give them to him."

"No, you don't understand, I've planned out--"

"Tails, if he wants guns, let him have them," he says. Normally I'd listen to him, but I know what a firearms freak he is. He's just saying yes because the mere mention of something that fires and kills things probably gives him a hard-on.

"Kays--really, he doesn't need them."

"Hell, it could be interesting."

"I don't WANT it to be interesting!"

"Tails, man, just give him the guns. If he insists, then he probably isn't going to move until he gets his way, like the stubborn child he is. Why do you think he's in there?"

I'll admit he does have some good qualities.

I take my hand off the mouthpiece and sigh. Kays is right. Guns it is.

"Alright," I finally say.

___________________

[SONIC, Stephen Zacharus]

I can hear Tails give a frustrated sigh.  "Alright," he says.  "Which way are you facing?"

"Away from my cell."

"Then go down the hallway to your left.  At the end of the hallway, there should be two doors; go through the one that leads to the stairwell.

"Now," he says as soon as I'm through the door, "go to ground-level--three floors down.  I don't see any guards near the door at that level on the cameras, but be careful just in case."

I find the ground-level door and look through the small, rectangular window just above the doorknob.  Not a guard in sight.

"This is almost too easy,"  I laugh, reaching for the doorknob.

"WAIT!!!" Tails screams into the receiver.

I jump back, putting my hand to my ear.  "Holy shit, Tails, that fucking HURT…"

"Sorry, but that door would've triggered an alarm.  Hold on…"  I hear faint typing, and then: "Okay, you're safe.  Go ahead."

I step through the door.  Damn, it's quiet.  Something about this doesn't sit well with me…

"To your right is a door with a keypad on it."

"Is that the room?"

"Yes.  Hold on while I try to crack the code…"

I watch as the little keypad lights up; random numbers are highlighted, blinking on and off in busy, irregular patterns…

That is, until suddenly the door hisses and slides into the wall.

"Bingo," says Tails.  "Open sesame."

The room isn't much bigger than, say, a closet, but I don't give a shit.  It's filled wall-to-wall with handguns, so who's complaining?  I grab a couple, check 'em--no clips.  I start looking for some ammo.

"Hurry up, Sonic.  I see a guard at the end of the hall…"

"Stuff it, Tails.  These guns are useless without some fucking bullets."

"He's COMING, Sonic.  Hurry up!"

Hot damn--jackpot.  I find a whole binfull of clips.  I grab two and shove them into the guns and I'm out of there.

"WAIT!" Tails says.  "That guard is still…"

"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!!!" I hear from down the hall.  

Fuck.

Without thinking, I spin around and fire from both guns.  I watch as the distant guard convulses twice--eyes glazed, slumping face-forward to the marble floor.  Blood is everywhere.  

I'm silent, realizing that I've never killed anybody before now.  

It's all very sobering, actually.

Tails' voice was frantic.  "Sonic?!!  Sonic, what's going on?  Are you alright?  Sonic, talk to me…"

"I'm good," I say, stepping over to the guard's body, kicking it over.  He has an unused clip on his belt.  How convenient…

"Sonic, you've gotta get out of there.  There's a door to your left that…"

But I'm not listening to him.  I grab the guard's clip and run back to the stairwell.  People to see, debts to pay...

"Sonic, what are you DOING?!!"  The kid must be able to see me over one of the security cameras.

"I'm going to visit a friend of mine.  I won't be long."

Up three floors… down the hall…

There.

A thick, steel door with a tiny window--identical to the door to my own little Wet Room.  I peek inside and see Vector curled up against the wall, sleeping.  His face looks like hell.  I smile briefly at my own handiwork before spitting on him.

"Hey asshole.  Wake up."

The crocodile groans and blinks and looks up at me.  "Wha…"

"Just wanted to tell you that I'm getting the hell out of here.  I hope you enjoy prison…"  I point one of the guns through the window.  "…'cause you're never gonna leave.  Ever."

And then I empty an entire clip into the fucker.  

___________________

[TAILS, David Macintyre]

"Oh… oh god."

I did not just see that. Tell me I didn't see that.

Too late. I did. And even if I didn't, the gory imagery was vivid enough. White and yellow guts, red blood everywhere, intestinal fluids. Add that to the fact that I sometimes hyperventilate when nervous, and get sick.

"Tails? What's wrong?"

I feel an uneasy burble welling up in the bottom of my stomach. An all too familiar feeling. I can't hold this one in, either.

"He just… he just… that alligator…!"

No more fighting it.

"Oh, god. Take over." I half throw the laptop at him, scrambling to undo my jacket and unlock the door. Air. I need air.

"Crocodile," he says, looking at the security camera on the monitor.

"What?"

"Not alligator. He's a crocodile. It's in the snout."

"How can you fucking tell?! He doesn't have a nose anymore!"

"I suppose not…"

I keep grabbing at the lock, putting my hand over my mouth and trying to fight the queasy urge.

"Shit-FLARGH."

There it was. Tacos, corn chips and whatever other spicy Mexican delights Kays brought with him for snack fare buckets onto the pavement and trickles down into the grass, almost invisible in the darkness. The taste sure doesn't go away, though.

I'm sure if he had a piece of paper that I could see in the dim moonlight, he'd have written 8.5 or some number on it and held it up.

"FUCK! I *told* you to lay off that sour cream!"

___________________

[SONIC, Stephen Zacharus]

Nothing seems real at this point.  I hear the distant echoing of running footsteps… the blurry image of three security guards coming at me, guns drawn… the faraway orders to freeze and put my hands on my head.

Yeah.  Like FUCKING HELL.

Surprisingly, I'm able to ground all three guards with exactly three shots.  Afterwards, though, I put a couple bullets in each of their heads--just in case.

I wonder why I haven't heard Tails objecting yet...

Suddenly I hear some kid's sarcastic voice over the receiver.  "Well, if it isn't the infamous Sonic the Hedgehog.  It's an honor, man."  Whoever it is, it's not Tails.

"Who the fuck is THIS?"

"Chill, Sonic--it's Kays."  Ah.  Tails' cousin.  "I'll be your tour guide for the remainder of the evening."

"Thrilling.  What happened to Tails?"

"He couldn't stay.  He had to…"  Awkward pause.  "Nevermind, it's not important, just pay attention.  I want you to go down the hall in the opposite direction of the stairwell.  At the end of the hall is a large ventilation grate.  See it?"

"Yeah, I'm headed towards it now.  So what if it's bolted to the wall, genius?"

"It's not.  We've planned all this out, man, just trust us.  You should be able to just pry the thing off the wall."

He's right.  It takes a bit of tugging, but the grate comes off sooner or later.  "Great security in this place," I snort into the microphone.

"Yeah, well, you're not out yet.  Just do what I tell you."

Goddamn smartass kid.  "Fuck you, too."

"Okay, Mister Congeniality, after you've pulled that grate back into place, just keep crawling until you get to a split in the shaft.  When you get there, go left and--"

"HOLD ON!  One thing at a time.  Fucking Christ."

Now, I know you've got better things to do with your time than to sit here while I tell you about how I carefully pull the grate back into place (which is trickier than I would like it to be) and follow Kays' sarcastic instructions ("What do you know?  He *can* multitask after all!") to the split in the shaft and then directly left until I get to the vent that leads to the yard just outside the complex, so I'll skip this part to keep from boring you.

Ha ha.  Fooled you, didn't I?

Anyway, here I am at the end of the shaft, staring through the grate into the nighttime prisonscape.  Prisonscape, he he he, I'm so damn poetic.  Then again, you probably would be too if you were this close to freedom after months of being locked up in a claustrophobic acidhouse.  

"Now here's the tricky part, Hedgehog."

"Yeah, no shit.  How the hell am I gonna get by those turret guards?"  (For the those of you who know nothing about prison security, I'm 

reffering to a total of four watchtowers--one on each corner of the complex--complete with nice big turret guns.  Lucky me).  "This is fucking 

crazy.  They see me, they shoot me, they win."

"Well, that's the thing.  You may or may not know that they're running short on staff this time of year, so for the now they're only securing one side of the complex at a given time.  In other words, there's no one guarding this side of the prison until about maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes from now."

"So… what's the tricky part, then?"

"There are a total of three fences that border the prison.  I've taken the liberty of melting a big-ass hole in each of them for you; should be big enough for you to fit through, anyway."

"Why can't I just climb over?"

"Two reasons: one, because that'd take too long; and two, because I'm sure you don't want to shred yourself on that yummy barbed wire."

"Oh.  Right."

"Anyway, the point is that you're gonna have to speed your way through hella fast, 'cause otherwise they might see you."

"For shit's sake, who the hell do you think you're talking to?  Billy Bob Thorton?"

"It's just, you know, dangerous.  And with that orange jumpsuit on, you're at an even bigger risk of being seen.  Not to mention how hard it's gonna be to see those holes in the fence at this time of night."

"Well, where are they?"

"What?"

"The HOLES."

"Ahead of you, roughly.  A bit to the left, I think.  You'd better hurry up, Hedgehog, 'cause it won't be long before the other guards find out what you did back there, and then you'll be fucked for sure."

Placing my fingers into the slots of the ventilation grate, I carefully push and sort of lift it out of place, taking it with me as I hop to the smooth cement that's waiting for me below the duct.  I set it down, squint at the fence that stretches before me.  I think I see a break in the chainlink.  Pretty sure.  Kays was right, though, as much as I hate to admit it; it's fucking hard to see this shit in the dark.

What the hell, I decide.  I go for it.  I break into a sprint, building momentum, and then charge full-speed at the hole--yes, it *is* a hole, I can see for sure now--ducking underneath, dropping into a summersault and rolling to the next fence, spinning through that one, getting to my feet, onto the third fence…

I feel a split-second of pain in my shoulder as I'm charging through the third hole in the fence; probably scraped it on some raw chainlink or something.  It's not enough to stop me, though.

Hoo boy.  What a rush.

I'm OUT.

HOLY FUCK I CAN'T BELIEVE IT I'M FINALLY *OUT* HOT DAMN!!!

"Across the street," says Kays over the intercom, "and about a block or so to the right of you, you'll find a little alley with a dumpster.  Underneath it you'll find a duffel bag; there's a change of clothes in there for you."

Nice.

"And hurry the fuck up, will you?  We haven't got all night."

I strip out of my orange jumpsuit, stuffing it into the dumpster, and proceed to dress.  Tails' little "disguise" consists of a hooded sweater, jeans, a baseball cap, sneakers and a pair of sunglasses.  I look like a fag now, but I guess it's better than nothing.  It's a little less suspicious-looking than a trench coat and fedora, anyway.

"Alright, Sonic--past the dumpster, the alley leads to 5th Street.  Look casual.  We're waiting for you in the car about four blocks west of you, just past the traffic light…"

I drop my guns in a gutter as I leave the alley.  

___________________

The passenger seat is occupied by somebody's laptop computer, so I hop in the back seat of the car with Tails.  For some reason or another, he looks sick.  I notice that he's not even looking at me.

"Hey, li'l bro," I say, grinning, slugging him in the shoulder.  "We did it!  We're *outta* here!"

"Yeah," Tails says, barely acknowledging me.  "Great."

"Hey, let's go, kid," I say to Kays, hitting the back of his seat.  "If I never come back to *this* place, it'll be too soon."

The car pulls out, accelerates.  Tails is still staring out the window.

"Hey, what's wrong, bro?  Somethin' the matter?"

He doesn't say anything for some time.

And then:  "Yeah.  Somethin's the matter, alright.  His name is Sonic the Hedgehog, and he used to be my best friend."

Silence.  I wasn't expecting that.  I'm not quite sure how to react.

"What the f... aw, shit, man, stop kidding around!  What the hell are you talking about?"

"You heard me."  Tails is practically trembling.  His arms are folded and he won't look away from the window.  His voice is small and hurt.  "You're a *murderer* now, Sonic."

No.

NO.

Tails, don't start this shit with me now, for god's sake PLEASE...

"Hey look, kid, I did what I had to do to get outta there…"

"No," he says, looking at me for the first time.  His eyes are burning into mine, red and wet.  "I had everything planned perfectly.  You didn't need those guns.  You would have gotten out of that building in less than five minutes without having to kill fucking ANYBODY.  I should have never let you talk me into unlocking that room.  Why the fuck did you have to DO that?"

Because prison made me want to kill something because I fucking hate my life because I'm so damn bored because I like killing people because I like POWER because I don't have enough of it anymore because somebody fucking took it away from me because I made one goddamn mistake and everybody hates me for it and because I needed to take it out on somebody because I guess I'm just that way BECAUSE I FUCKING *FELT* LIKE IT, OKAY?!!!

A million things are going through my head now, but I still can't think of anything to say--at least nothing that would make him understand.  I just watch Tails as he turns from me, breath heaving.

"It's my fault," he sobs.  "My fault… my fault…"

No.  Oh, fuck no.  Not this.  Anything but this.  I'm no good at being a comfort object.  

"It's not your fault," I say, putting my hand on his shoulder, trying my best to sound confident.  "It's just… one of those things, you know?  There's nothing we…"

Tails draws away, recoils.  "Don't touch me.  Don't pull that 'we' shit on me.  Don't try to rationalize this.  I don't believe anything you say anymore.  Isn't it bad enough that you RAPED one of my closest friends?  Now you have to turn ME into a MURDERER too?!"  He's practically foaming at the mouth, convulsing, tearful.  There's hate in those eyes right now.

I look at Kays.

"Pull over," I say, "NOW."  And he does.

I lose it right there.

"Fine," I say to Tails.  "Fuck you, then.  Fuck everybody.  After all, it was YOU and everybody else who put me into that fucking shithole in the first place, right?"  I kick open the car door and step outside.  "I guess I'm on my own now.  Who fucking needs YOU, anyway?  All your life you've always been the little goddamn tag-along--just a worthless little fucking PUPPY.  I can get rid of Eggman by myself."

"You're right," Tails says quietly, unmoving.  "You're on your own now.  As long as I live, I'll *never* help you again."

"Here."  I pull out the Walkman that I've somehow managed to keep on me this whole time and I chuck it at him.  "You can have that back; it's only been causing me problems, anyway."

The kid says something else, but I'm not paying attention.  I just slam the door on him and walk away.

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	26. Ignorance is bliss

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**26. Ignorance is bliss.**

[TAILS, David Macintyre] 

I don't know if it was fear that made me want to scream. But it had to be a relative.

So I did.

"That plan was a total waste of time and resources," Kays groans, starting the car. All I can do is sit and worry. I actually bite my nails at some point.

We drive for about five minutes before Kays opens his big mouth again.

"Your friend's a real charmer," he drones sarcastically. "Are you SURE he was what everyone says he was?"

I snap.

"Kays, I am so NOT In the mood for your lightning fucking wit right now, okay?! We are officially SCREWED, hosed, shot, dead meat, FUCKED. Without Sonic there isn't a thing in Hell we can do against Eggman, and no chance in Hell of stopping him. That was our last chance and we fucking BLEW it. So just keep your godly opinions to your fucking SELF!!"

I don't get an answer. He just drives. He turns up the radio.

"This is all YOUR fault!!" I wail at Kays. His eyes widen considerably and he brakes hard. He turns to face me.

"What did you say?" he says, not even swearing as he usually does. He looks really serious. "MY fault, Tails?"

"Yes! If you hadn't told me to let him into the gun room we wouldn't even be having a problem! This is all going to hell because of you, you fucking NRA freak!"

He hits even harder than Tyler.

I grasp the side of my face in agony, one of my eyes covered in a useless effort to stop a bruise from forming. I clench my teeth and glare hard at him, his eyes burning back as forcefully as mine.

"Tails, get it the fuck together, okay?! I admit I had something to do with this, but I am NOT the only one at fault here. Just get your shit together and accept the fact that we have to find another way to do this. It's not the end of the world."

"It's going to be the end of mine!!"

"NO IT ISN'T," he roars. My anger disappears and fades into fear. He breathes heavily. He wipes his brow. "God dammit Tails, it's not that bad. You've never had a problem stopping that Egg guy before, have you?"

"But we had Sonic helping us then!!"

"Well, I'm sure he sees it as you helping him as well."

"Not from what he said!"

"Tails, you build fucking WAR machines, okay?! How far do you think he could get without you?!"

I have to mull on it for a moment.

I hate to admit it, but he is right.

  
Wait. No I don't.

"Kays… I'm scared. I honest to God am frightened out of my skin right now. Somebody is going to die in the next two days and I don't want it to be anybody I really care about."

"Tails, you've already gotten rid of one of them, right?"

I forgot I told him that.

"Yeah."

"Well, there HAS to be a flaw in their attack plan somewhere. I'm sure the other one is weakened without this one you got rid of. So just stop worrying, and think of something. I'll try too."

I sit in total silence for a long time.

Kays speaks as he turns the car back on.

"We're going to be fine, little buddy, you'll see."

Little buddy.

Sonic used to call me that.

_________________________

"Kays… Kays, we need to get downtown, like NOW."

"Hm?" he says, coming into the room. He's chewing on some kind of snack.

I'm too frightened to even yell, or scream, or anything right now. I just point at the computer screen, my lip trembling.

The hit list is finished. I'm right before Sonic. Rouge is not present on the list for some odd reason... probably because of Eggman's fat fucking setup.

But despite that, this is bad. Really, REALLY bad.

I wasn't expecting Amy to be NEXT.

And according to my observations…

The phone rings.

"Kays, Amy's next on the list," I say as I rush to grab the phone. He looks shocked from what I can see and his eyes glue to the screen.

I pick up the receiver, my heart pounding.

"YesthisisTailswhoisthis?"

"Tails," Amy's voice says, droning. "They're coming now."

Oh… no. God, God gods no.

"I think they're after Rouge, but I can't tell. And I don't care. Come and help if you want, but if not… goodbye, Tails."

The connection dies.

Oh no.

"Amy?! Amy, WHO's coming?! WHO IS COMING?!"

_The robots… duh…_

No answer.

_But Rouge isn't a target!!_

Nothing.

_The feds?!__ Are the feds there?!_

No.

NO.

NONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONOAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGHHH SHIT!

IHAVENOIDEAWHATTODOTHEYDIDN'TGIVEMETIMETOPLANTHISISN'TFAIRI'MJUSTAKIDWHATTHEHELLAMISUPPOSEDTODONOWHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEEEEEE

"KAYS! I need to get to Amy's, now!!!"

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	27. A damn good reason

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**27. A damn good reason.**

[AMY, Sean Catlett]

I rip the phone cord out of the wall, this time making sure to come at an angle where the entire unit breaks. It goes out the window with the rest. These engines I hear, they could be all in my head. The roar is a manifestation of my frustration at comprehension bla bla bla, BLA BLA BLA! SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!!  

I AM NOT LIKE HIM!!

but I could be. 

He went nuts. Plain and simple. There's no deeper meaning behind it. He gave in just like so many other people have already, in the way that they ignore what's around them, in the way that they kill and rape and strive for regularity only for themselves, the way there is pain and suffering at the hands of them all, why compassion is so fucking hard, the way that there are nerds and species and races and rules and law and everything that it fights against, the way they all masturbate and fuck to escape, the way they build machines to do what they couldn't . . . 

And? So what? Big deal. He wasn't perfect.

I know, but . . . it would have been nice if he was. 

_Cru_nch. 

Crunch?

_Crun_ch. 

_Crunch._

Oh come on. The hallway? Now I know it's Robotnik. Only he would be this stupid. 

In the corner, the metal pole glimmers, enticing, long and not very thick. It's just too easy to walk over and pick it up. The darkness closes around me and I hide myself in the shadows. 

Even with the engines burning in my ears, my breathing gasping for air, and the cr_unch, cru_nch_, cr__unches shattering my skull, it's deathly quiet in the apartment. _

And I'm not even scared. Or if I am I just don't notice it. 

Just don't pay attention, Amy. Just ignore your surroundings. Ignore the hunger and the dehydration picking at you. Ignore the doubt, the doubt, and the fact that your death is probably closer at hand than you realize. Ignore your reflection in the metal bar, which shows a face more frightened than anything you've ever seen . . . 

Crunch, crunch, crunch?

The engines grow louder, the footsteps faster. 

It sounds really stupid and cartoonie, too, like . . . FWOOOOOM or WHIRRRRR or uhhh FUUUCK. Get the idea. 

Raise the bar. Do it. 

Done. 

Come on, come on! You've done this before, remember? In the ally? The brick? It's easy. Pretend, if need be. 

I close my eyes and pretend that the coming attacker is someone I know and someone I hate. Thousands of faces flash across, and none of them work. I squint my eyes and try Sonic, but . . . no. 

In fact, the only one that's even close to working

is

Him. 

When my eyes open again, Rouge comes bursting through the door, gun raised and pointing frantically around the room, and she's calling my name, and tiny pieces of glass are stuck to her feet, and-

ROUGE?!!

Shit. 

And then, all hell breaks loose. 

This talent, this knack, don't ask me where it comes from. Sonic and Tails rubbing off on me maybe. 

But anyway. 

The couch, lying close to the door, is quick to reach. While explaining to Rouge in a rushed voice that it's her that's targeted and not me, I pull the blanket off the sticky upholstery and throw it over her. It floats down lightly like a leaf and covers her. 

And then he's here. 

Red. 

And knocking Rouge behind the overturned couch, I only smile at it. 

"Come on," I coo at it, keeping the bat aimed high. It cocks it's head, the blades adorning his crown clicking together. Involuntarily, the scars on my face inflame, but I shake it off. I stare back at him, and he stares at me. He's at full height, his eyes glowing. He looks confused. I shouldn't be fighting back like this. I coo again, and make the first steps. 

Mirrored. Closer. 

Again. 

Mirrored. Closer. 

I can smell the oil and the dried blood. 

Again. Mirrored. Closer.

His claws come out of his knuck- his knuckles . . . 

Closer.

He crouches like a jaguar at the world cup games. Those fuckers can run like hell. 

Closer. 

I stand my ground and I let him come. 

Closer. 

Here. 

He crouches, drawing in air, just like before, and he strikes-

_DING_!

Ding? For fuck's sake . . . 

_DING_!

"You don't EVER -_DING!- fuck with me, or my friends, EVER AGAIN! -_DING_- Are you in there, eggfuck?!! -__DING- Come and fight like a MAN, YOU DICKLESS BASTARD!! -__DING- YOU FUCKING COWARD!" -__DING- _

The impacts, they jar my wrists and set my shoulder afire. The dance circles around the scattered debris, the battlefield. The target squeals with warning buzzers and sucks in more air. This could pass for frustration, and it's laughable. 

It doesn't look like I'm doing much damage, though. It was obviously made for combat like this, whereas Black did the blood sucking. Lucky me, I get all the hard ones. The stab wounds from Sandra's apartment cover his stomach in little scratches.  

Luckily, I see the attack coming, right as Rouge calls out in warning. Side swipe. Dodge. Roll. I'm feet from him, ducking the mess he knocked over, a barricade for the door. The television, oh my God, get this: flies right at the ceiling fan and manages to get it's cord wrapped around the blades. How fucking comedic. 

. . . . . . 

No! 

No, Amy!

Don't do it!

NO!

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to . . . Baseball!" 

Swing. The TV flies on an arc and hits Red dead on. He squeals. 

"OH! What a swing! And-"

The box comes back at me, quickly, and I swing again, sending it flying back at him. Hit. Score.

"Bases are loaded, folks-" 

Swing. Hit. Another score. Squeal. 

Laugh. 

"The pitch! The swing!"

Crack. Boom. He's knocked off his feet. And the crowd goes fuckin wild. 

"HOME RUN! HOME TEAM WINS THE GAME! THE CROWD GOES WILD!"

Then he gets back up. 

Fuck. 

And because I can't think of anything else to say . . .

"Batter up, beeeeitch!!"

Swing. Crack. 

Catch. 

 . . . Out.

And I swear that that's a triumphant smile he's giving me. 

The pitch. He throws, actually, he HITS the TV back at me, snapping the cord and sending the box flying at high speeds. My body hits the floor, evading, getting smacked in the forehead, and I swear, honestly, that I come up as quick as I can. 

But it's not enough. 

He's already in front of me, so close his chest touches mine, towering above. All I have left is instinct. 

Swing. He lets it hit him, and in fact, he braces himself for it. He grabs my pole and he breaks it in half. 

Damn it. 

"AMY!" It's Tails. 

Aw.

And I was having so much fun, too. 

­­­­­________________________

[TAILS, David Macintyre]

What do I have? What am I holding as I leap through the window of the fire escape and rush into the living room?

Not a gun, not a rifle, not a real weapon of any kind.

I have a freaking wrench and a hammer. Best I could find on such urgently short notice. It'll have to suffice.

"TAKE THIS YOU MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF-" Clang.

I don't even register what I see when I come in. It's all fuzzy to me. All that I can focus on is the hulking mass of red steel menacing me from a foot away, probably ready to punch me senseless. I'm regretting this already.

"Amy, take Rouge and GO!"

I suppose it works, but the big guy is obviously too strong for me to take down. If anything this is just a martyr to allow the others to escape. The door slams against the wall as she leaves.

God, I'm such a fucking IDIOT.

I look around, ducking under his punch-just barely, I might add-and run. No fancy flips or kung fu jumps, I just SCRAM. 

  
I get onto the couch and try to leap over him as he comes for the wall, all eight freaking tons of indestructible red steel flying fist first at where I was standing just a moment ago. I throw the hammer down at him while up in the air, actually expecting it to do something, and then dash.

Door is not totally open. No time to open it. Instead I turn, grab the TV, and heave it hard at him. It barely even slows him. He comes at me again, and I leap.

He clips my leg.

That fucking HURTS.

"AAAAGGGHHHHHH!!!!"

I don't even know what happens next.

The big, hulking pile of red metal looms down on me. 

As he does it seems to last hours, but probably only lasted a second.

Big, silver muzzle. Red plated head. Glowing yellow eyes. Freaky, demonic designs tooled skillyfully into the muzzle. Big, circular intercom type speaker where the mouth would be. Loud, Vader-esque crackling sounds emit from it at close range.

  
Huge, hulking red body, muscular. Right arm sporting a shield probably bigger than me, the other a pair of what seem to be retractable spikes, with little pin holes on the tip of each, probably syringes. I've been doing my homework. 

Eggman logo across the shield. Model number 'K-501' stamped against the right breast.

K.

  
The letter K.

Big red, hulking machine, spikes on hands, blades hanging from the head that resemble dreadlocks, a partner in death that was once our ally Shadow, and a big letter K stamped on his chest.

No. It can't be.

Holy fucking-

I go flying to the hard ground below as he throws me out the window.

This is not pleasant.

________________________

Aahhhhhhhhhhh crash.

Groan. Pain.

My whole body is wracked with undeniable agony. I soared straight out the window, over the railing, and right into the roof of a car. I've made a big dent. I fall, aching, to the asphalt ground.

I spit up blood.

"Agh… shit, shit, shit-" more blood, and puke. What a great way to start.

I want to sleep. My eyes droop, eyelids becoming heavy. Sleep….

No.

  
No, not now. I have to do this.

I HAVE to.

  
As much as it hurts to do so, I feebily drag myself away from the car and hoist myself off of the ground. I have to support myself against the nearby railing before I can walk properly.

I look. My bike is around behind the building. I have to get to it.

I'm not even sure if I can drive the thing right now. But I've got to try.

It takes me what feels like hours to get behind the building, but according to my watch it's been like half a minute. I see it, and prop myself against it, wanting water.

Fuck, can that guy throw.

Half a minute too late, it seems. The big red guy  advances on Amy and whatever she has under that blanket, probably Rouge. She throws Rouge into the car and screams as Brass swings.

Scorch.

  
Kays shoots him from the driver's seat, yelling at Amy to get in. She won't. She ducks.

I can't take this guy on. There's no way.

We need help. We need help, now. NOW.

My stomach churns.

I only know of one place I can get it. I'm going to hate myself, because this will mean I am weak and dependent. But…

It….

Needs to be…

Done.

Done.

Now. Done. Do it. Now.

Yeah.

I lurch forward onto the bike and grab at my tool kit, strapped to the side of the seat.

Maybe…

Just maybe…

Yes.

Yes. Thank you, whatever god there may be up there, THANK YOU.

I find a pair of headphones in there with a microphone on them. I pull out the small radio transmitter we used earlier, then collapse.

I muster the strength.

Now. Do it now. Don't hesitate. We need HELP.

"…..SONIC!"

________________________

[SONIC, Stephen Zacharus]

"Dude, I need a fix like you can't fucking believe."

"I believe it, man. How'd you manage to get outta prison so early?"

"Let's just say that it's my little secret."

"Whatever. So what'll it be this time?"

"The usual stuff."

Kyle--scruffy wolf guy, drug-dealer friend of mine--hands me a small bag of white powder. "There you go, Hedgehog. Enjoy. It's gonna cost ya, though; I can't keep givin' you this shit for nothin'."

"I'll pay you back, buddy. Don't worry."

"Yeah? Why am I not convinced?"

I simply grin at him.

"So anyway," I say, "I need to get my hands on some weapons. Bombs and guns, whatever."

"What are you planning to do with 'em?"

"It's personal. Wish I could tell ya, man, but I can't."

"Hmm. Well, I might be able to give you a few names. What's in it for me?"

I whip out my wallet and start flipping through a fat wad of bills. "I dunno. I might think of paying back all the money I owe you. Maybe a little extra? Beats the hell out of me…"

Kyle grinned back at me. "Now we're talking."

"Just give me a name and put a good word in for me," I say, tossing him the whole wad. 

"Shit, man. Where'd you come up with all this *cash*…? Are you expecting something to happen to you or what?"

"You might say that. C'mon, man. *Names*."

"Right. There's this duck I know who has…"

"SONIC!!!"

Holy fuck. I hold my hand to my ear, bitterly realizing that I'd forgotten to take that goddamn bug out…

"Tails, what the fuck do *you* want?"

The kid sounds panicked, out of breath. "Sonic, you've gotta help us. One of Eggman's bots is…"

I can't believe I'm hearing this.

"What the hell is going on?" Kyle asks, backing up. "Who the fuck are you *talking* to, man? This is some freaky-ass shit…"

"Tails," I say, beyond pissed at this point, not even bothering to explain myself to Kyle, "just why the fuck should I help *you*? You'd better have a damn good reason for interrupting me like this."

I wait for some lame-ass excuse.

Then: "Sonic… it's Knuckles."

Zoom.

________________________

[AMY, Sean Catlett]

All things considered, I think that escorting a half hysterical woman down two flights of stairs covered in a blanket would take forever, but, since I'm such a badass, I did it in record time. Rouge screams something at me about never doing anything like that ever again, and I'm taking the gun away from her and "Yeah, yeah, yeah"-ing, telling her to keep the fucking blanket on or she's roasted bat jerky, all the way out the door, where the harshness of the color slaps me sharply in the face. We're outside. 

I can feel blood running down my face.

what?

amy

amy!

"AMY ROSE!"

Something is wrong. 

Up the street, the driver of the van whistles and motions for me to run to him. It looks like an FBI van. 

"AMY ROSE! COME ON!" He whistles like I don't hear him. 

F. 

B. 

I. 

Rouge turns to me and shrugs under the blanket. Not like she can see anyway. 

I don't know. I don't know about this. Falling in one enemy's hands to escape another. Is that really better?

_CLANG!_

Fine. Fuck it. 

These moving piles of skin and bones, these muscles and neurons, they don't want to be torn apart from each other. So the brain tells them. Not like they have a choice. 

RUN! it tells them. 

RUN! And so they do it. 

The van doors in the back swing open when we arrive, and inside are machines that click and move and glow. 

Surveillance. 

Hesitation.

"Get in the van!" The driver yells, looking behind me in fear. Almost fueled by pure instinct,  I heave Rouge into the van. Her blanket almost falls off but she pulls it tight around her. 

When I turn around, this mess of screaming red metal bares its fangs and takes a swing.

It's so hot that I don't feel anything. 

In fact, it feels nice. 

"GET IN THE FUCKING VAN!!"

what?

WHAT?!!!  
  


HOLY SHIT, IT'S THE FUCKING FBI! Wait. No. No. No. Can't be. 

The driver pulls out a gun and points it at my head. Whoops. 

________________________

[TAILS, David Macintyre]

"Amy! Over here. Over HERE!" I manage to croak out, hoping it's loud enough to get her attention.

Apparently not.

I groan and throw myself onto the bike, kicking it into gear and rubbing my head. I don't want to do this. But I guess I have no choice.

"Amy….!" I say weakly, driving toward her. "Get ON."

Finally I get her attention. She runs toward the bike, shots coming from Kays constantly. The red thing doesn't attack Amy yet.

"Amy… get on, now. NOW."

She doesn't argue, instead half leaping onto the bike and throwing her arms around my front. I almost vomit again, but suppress it.

"Ugh… hold… on, Amy."

  
She's already doing that. I rev the bike into gear and drive straight past the robot, who follows. Kays pursues him, shooting at him from the window.

"Be… caref-" he yells. I can't hear him now, wind whipping at my face and tearing at my already burning cheeks. No matter how fast I go, though, he still follows.

This time I have traffic to deal with.

I weave in and out groggily of any cars that come by, getting motion sick. Amy's constant screaming doesn't help much.

The robot gives chase. Constantly.

Always just getting into that little inch before reaching us, then falling back.

AlmostalmostalmostdammittryagainalmostdamntryoncemorecomeonealmosttheredammityoucandoitthistimemotherfuckingDAMN.

I really don't want this right now.

I can't deal with it.

I head for a rising ramp, and tighten my eyelids.

"Hold on, Amy."

I push the button.

________________________

[AMY, Sean Catlett]

Words cannot describe.

I retract every statement I have ever made about Tails' bike. This is so cool . . . This is so cool . . . 

This bike, it can burst through van doors without a scratch on it. This bike, it can support a pregnant passenger without bending dangerously low to the ground. This bike, it can out run a speedy metal demon hot on your tail. It can give him a run for his money. 

Really. I shit you not. 

"I'm doing better now. Honest."

"What was that, Amy?!" Tails yells over the screeching and the rushing wind. 

"I said, "HOLY FUCK, HE'S COMING UP FAST!!!"

"What?!" He still can't hear. 

Simple solution, really. I have this talent for screaming a really high pitch. Ask my ex girlfriends. They'll tell you. 

So, whenever Red gets close to us, about to hit the back of the rushing bike, I scream. It gets his attention and we maneuver. He should pay attention to the road anyway. 

See? 

I'm helpful. 

We're speeding around the construction part of the city, near the apartment. Broken down civilization being rebuilt, all around us. Everywhere are slabs of concrete and giant metal beams to get impaled on. 

Trying to keep up after us is the van. And the driver is firing at Red, giving us cover. Helping us. 

The bike slows down. 

"Hold on, Amy."

Wait, what? What is he doing?

We pick up speed again . . . 

Oh no.

You fucking asshole!

My scream is probably heard throughout the entire town. 

________________________

And we're on a rooftop all of a sudden, riding along with speed past exhaust pipes and transmitting towers. The bike wobbles down on the roof, hard. My teeth clack together and more of my blood flows down Tails' back. 

I'm starting to get woozy. 

"Don't . . . ever do that again."

"You want to live, right?"

He revs the bike and jumps another tower. My fingers grip his chest tighter and my head bounces against his back.

"Your bike can jump . . . And yet you bring a wrench to fight him. I don't get you."

Jump. Land. Clatter. Gun shot. He's still behind us, scaling the walls and scrambling across the tops. Technology falls in his wake. 

He jumps. 

He glides. 

He runs. 

Like a scavenger. Like a hunter. Like an ancient God . . .

.

Uh oh. 

No. 

"It's Knuckles, isn't it?"

It sounds so horrible out loud. 

". . ."

Jump. Land. Bleed. Swipe. Blurry. 

I never get an answer. That means I'm right. 

"I . . . I can't believe I never saw it before."

PainGuiltLiesDeathCheatAbandonBleedDeadKnucklesJumpDieBurnLeaveDestroyRobotOblivion

Something comes pouring out of me, and I can't tell whether it's blood or tears. I guess it doesn't matter. 

I just want this to end.

________________________

[TAILS, David Macintyre]

"It's Knuckles, isn't it?"

Oh no.

No, not this. Not now…

It hurts me too, to tell the truth.

I AM capable of liking someone, you know. As a friend, asshole.

"…"

It's probably best not to answer… she'll know what that means.

"I… I can't believe I never saw it before."

"… it's better that you didn't. It makes the job a lot easier."

"Are we going to have to… kill him?"

Swing, dodge, left, right. Jump.

"That depends."

Jump.

"On what?"

"If it's even possible."

It's really amazing how calming this conversation is.

Even when you're being chased down by an old best friend who's now loaded down with hostile weaponry, jumping from roof to roof on a two wheeled death trap…

She still makes you feel fine.

I guess that's what attracted me to her in the first place.

"And if it is?"

Jump swing dodge left right…

"That also depends."

"ON?"

Jump

"Whether or not he…."

Fuck it.

"Yeah, Amy, we're gonna have to kill him."

Suddenly.

________________________

[AMY, Sean Catlett]

"TAILS!"

"WHAT?!"

"HE'S GONE!"

Ducked out of sight about a building and a half ago. 

"Fuck!"

The bike slows down. 

"No! Keep going! He's trying to head us off!"

Imagining him running along the cover of the alleys, ducking along walls. Climbing. Scratching deep into the brick. 

We pick up speed again, turning along the buildings, trying to confuse him down below. Twisting our course like a piece of ribbon. The driver of van isn't firing anymore. Is that a good sign?

Then, something comes to me. 

He's not attacking Rouge. 

He's after us. 

And Tails is protecting ME. 

My arms wrap around him tighter, but I feel so weak, so weak . . . 

Ahead is a structure bigger than the building we're on. A parking garage. A different part of town. Far away from home. 

And Tails is going to jump it. 

I should have said something.

We clear the gap, soaring into a wild apex, high where the metal birds fly, and Red comes up from underneath us and hit's the center of the bike. We lose control and my grip on Tails is lost. 

We're floating in the middle of parts of machinery, debris from the bike everywhere. The womb of the dying industry. The ground so far away, Tails so far away, the sky so far away, Red so close . . . so close that I'm staring him in the eyes . . . 

And we land.

________________________

[TAILS, David Macintyre]

I hear a loud crack behind me. 

That must have been some part of Amy. Maybe her ass is broken from that landing.

I suddenly feel her go limp against my body. I'm going to have to stop and drop her off, or she's going to fall off. More dangerous.

I swing the bike around in a U-turn and hit the breaks. The bike skids, but I manage to stop it.

Then it falls over.

"Aaahahhh!"

The heavy weight of the bike sinks down into my foot. Something's twisted. I'm not walking for a week at least.

This can't happen now…

  
I see Knuckles… or whatever he's called now, come rushing toward us from the air.

First things first. I shift my weight and grip my hands under the bike.

This thing is heavier than it looks. A lot heavier.

For a moment my attention shifts to Amy.

Knuckles, he's probably coming.

But right now I don't care.

________________________

[AMY, Sean Catlett]

Smooth concrete, smoother than the face of child or the surface of refined and pounded metal, we land on this from two stories up, going 50 miles per hour or so. my arm breaks with a snap so loud that my ears hurt more than the actual limb. 

i black out. 

its so dark 

________________________

[SONIC, Stephen Zacharus]

I'm running and I can't stop.  I wish I could say that more poetically for you, but… well, fuck you.

All I'm thinking about is *him*.  Getting *him*.  Beating the shit out of *him*.

Killing *him*.

It's all his fault you know.  He made my life a living hell--mooching off of me like a goddamn leech, that bastard, and then having balls enough to tell me that I wasn't treating Amy right or that I was too egotistical or that I had a drug problem or whatever the hell his opinionated mouth wanted to fucking tell me.  Oh, and THEN starting fucking arguments in the middle of nice, crowded areas about how I didn't give a shit about him, going on and on about claustrophobia, whining about his hallucinations or constipations or mental retardations or, fuck, whatever the hell he called them.  You wanna know something?  I *didn't* give a shit about him.  Christ, after all the shit he put me through, it's no wonder I ended up wanting to screw Amy upwards and sideways.

So, just now I find out that he's still alive.  He's one of Eggman's robots, even.  It's like we're dragging the whole damn Incident back in the open again.  For fuck's sake, I just want to forget about it.  I want to move on with my life.  I want Knuckles fucking DEAD.

Streetlamps have become nothing more than continuous streaks of white light on either side of me.  I don't even feel the pavement beneath my feet anymore.  It's like I'm gliding on fire.

Coming up ahead of me is a cluster of dilapidated apartment complexes.  The whole area is a shithole; no wonder they call this the bad part of town.  I gathered from my brief conversation with Tails that the action was somewhere around Rouge's apartment.  Wherever the fuck THAT is…

_Crunch.___

…wha…?

I come to a stop; I'd stepped on broken glass.  I look up and see, three stories above me, a shattered apartment window.

Down a nearby alley, I can see overturned trashcans and some fresh chucks carved out of the brick buildings, debris crumbling into the street.  The place is a war zone.

Getting warmer…

Distant shouting.

Noise--clanging.

Following the trail of destruction, I can see an old parking garage come into view.

And then… I see him.

________________________

[TAILS, David Macintyre]

"Amy…. Amy, are you awake?"

Light stirring. Good enough.

I hear a clank.

I've given up trying to lift the bike.

I lie sideways on the ground, facing Amy, my head bleeding from something. My legs are being crushed under the bike. My face is expressionless. I bet my eyes are glazed over.

I speak weakly from fatigue.

This isn't so bad clang.

"Amy… when we get out of here… what do you want to do?"

She stirs more. She shifts.

"…uhh…"

"I'm going to get a job somewhere, make some money… I really want to get out of this city, don't you?"

"Tails… hel…Rouge…"

"It's fine, Amy… you don't have to move."

I've accepted my fate. That's what this is.

I'm going to die here.

I hear the whirring, the humming of that monster searching for us outside of the building.

This isn't so bad.

"I can't move."  
  


"We're under the bike. We can't move. We're probably going to die."

"What?!"

"Don't fight it, Amy, it'll go quicker and easier if you just zone out."

"…"

"Amy… what are you gonna name the baby?"

"… I… I don't know."

"Any ideas?"

"…I was gonna call her Ana."

The weight from the bike digs into my legs.

"That's a nice name. I like that."

She doesn't answer.

She tries to sit up.

"It's…"

"What?"

I look.

Sonic's here. He's here. We're okay.

"We'll be fine…"

No, we won't. I see it happening now, even before it does; something will stop him from winning. We're still dead.

________________________

[SONIC, Stephen Zacharus]

I dive forward, grabbing Knuckles from behind.  I think I take him by surprise, if you can even do that to 'bots.  I grapple his neck with one arm and shove his head forward with the other, trying to slam his goddamn cyborg face into the cement wall.

No use.  He shakes me off—like a rat.  Robotnik wouldn't have it any other way.

I eat pavement, HARD, and scramble back to my feet.  Faceoff.  He's ready for me now.

"That's what you think, you fucking brainless scrap heap…"

I attack again, from the front this time, charging like a mad bull.  I pounce into his chest and try to kick his head in and HOLY SHIT my foot connects and he falls down and he's down he's down he's DOWN…

I backflip from his chest and… into the wall.  Ouch.

I'm back up just before his rock-solid fist smashes into the cement beside me.

I turn.

Trashcan.

"You never give up, do ya, Knux?"

I kick the trashcan into him just after snatching the lid and diving away.

He knocks the trashcan across the garage.  But at least it slows him down.

"Eat this."

I'm on the ground, swinging my torso and heaving the trashcan lid like a frisbee to his legs.  I use the momentum to summersault forward and spin like hell in the same direction.

The lid connects, tripping RoboKnux, knocking him forward just as I'm underneath him.  I extend my leg upward as he's falling—connect, dead into his torso, knocking him flat—and I flip over him…

Only when I land, he's not there anymore.

FUCK—behind me.

Too late.

I jump out of the way, but his fist slices into my left bicep.

MOTHERFUCKER.

The pain is enough to bring me to my knees.  I clutch my arm, forcing my eyes to stay open, to stay fixed on him.  I can see that his right fist sports a pair of long, wicked-looking spikes.

Flashback.  I see newspaper headlines, articles.  The Vampire Murders—victims drained with thick holes in their necks.  Damn it, why didn't I make this connection before…

Suddenly I find myself wanting to be very, very far away.

HOLY—

A van comes out of nowhere—probably Tails or Kays or, fuck, maybe even Amy—and blindsides me.

Obviously they were trying to pulverize RoboKnux or some shit.  They sure did a hell of a job.  Knux isn't even phased, and I think I broke a couple ribs.

That's all the distraction he needs.

The shield attached to his right arm is driven right into my face.  Bang.  Pavement.

The whole world is now vertical.  My eyes are so heavy now.  

In the distance, I think I see Amy Rose.  She's dressed in black, and her hair is done up in some sort of wild punk-rocker frizz.  Her tough image can't disguise how absolutely terrified she is.  Helpless.  Hopeless.  Just like she looked the night I turned her lesbian.

I can't move.  I feel blood running down my face.

…Darkness.

________________________

[TAILS, David Macintyre]

"When's Ana due, Amy?"

"I don't know… a few months, I guess…"

"It'll be nice when she comes out, huh? No more carrying her around…"

"…"

"I'll get a job, Amy… I'll get a life for you two. You'll be fine. Both of you."

I hear the revs of Kays' van. Thuds, clanks, whacks, bangs, gone. Flat surface.

Sonic. He lost.

He lost. I knew it.

We're dead.

Now Rouge. Rouge's blanket has come off.

And suddenly everything stops.

I wait. I wait for everything to unfold.

I watch. They're talking or some shit… I can't pay attention….

"Amy…"

"…."

"You and your baby… you're going to be fine. I'll make sure, okay?"

"Thank you, Tails…"

I wait.

No.

I can't let it end like this.

Amy's baby. Our baby? Our Ana Rose… We have to get out of this, even if only for little Ana's sake.

"…."

"We'll be fine, Amy…"

No more.

NO MORE!

And that's when it happens.

________________________

[ROUGE]

I come crawling out of the crashed van on all fours, and by the time I stand up, already it's all over.

Even through my protective shroud I can see that Sonic is beaten. This skin stained blanket is like a filter that doesn't work; I can still see everything that I'm supposed to. 

Tails, this fear growing in his eyes, he hugs the limp Amy to his chest, the unnatural white light shining around him. Orange and pink blobs, quivering, muttering, dying. Both of them are stuck under a giant hunk of metal, trapped, trapped, trapped . . . 

There's so much blood everywhere. 

The giant in flowing red, liquid through the filter, his eyes flash not at me but at Amy and Tails, helpless in their prison. This robot is targeting, targeting, targeting, not searching. He's getting ready to advance. To strike.

Step. Step. Tails is frozen in headlights and for once he's at a complete loss of what to do. He can't retreat because he's held down fast, easily 70 or 80 pounds pressed on his legs. All he can do is wall himself in front of Amy, a final barrier of protection . . . 

It's not me that Robotnik wants dead. It's her. 

The gun, still in my hand, grows hot as my hand tightens around it . . .

And then there's words passing across my eyes, thin as thoughts but vibrant like the sun. The words stay there in front of me like an ugly scar. Guaranteed that Tails and everyone else can see the exact same scar. The words confirm the obvious.

_We're dead._

_We're so dead._

No. No. No.

Sonic can't be our last hope. He fucking can't be! _knucklesNo, no, no, we've all grown up. We're no longer children to be led by his towering persona__Knucklesacross lakes of danger and skies of darkness. We_KNUCKles_don't need to be herded to safety! We need no hands to guard us! We can take care of ourselves! We need no FUCKING HELP! _

I pull the gun up, throwing the shroud off with one arm. I prepare for the recoil, the part where the expanding air propels the bullet forward and the shooter backwards. The laws of physics. A little recoil is proportional to the awesome force of the projectile. This should work. This should work. 

Without the filter, Robotnik's creation is lined up in the crosshairs and I can feel him move closer. It's a world of light so bright that I can only see outlines. I can only see what's intended to be and not what is. Preformed weaponry. Growls and snarls. Mechanical whirring. The clinking of metal. 

Outlined Tails sees me coming, sees the gun raised, and he wraps his arms around Amy, covering her head with his hands, immediately coated in blood. 

The outlined creation turns towards me. He drops his attack and just . . . stands . . . 

Squeeze. Squeeze. Almost . . . almost . . . 

And . . . 

Oh . . . m_y . . ._

_Knuckles?___

_Is it really you?_

"Hi."

_How . . . Why . . . I have so many questions . . ._

Shrug. "Same old, same old, I guess."

That stupid grin that he always does froms on his face. His shoulders hunch forward and he crosses his arms. God . . . 

"I'm . . . so happy to see you. You look . . . great . . ."

_So do you . . . Just as I remember you . . ._

Cry. Sob. 

"Don't . . . don't cry, Rouge. I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry . . ."

_Wh__-__why did you do it?_

"I had to."

_Why?_

"I just . . . I had to."

_WHY?!!_

_WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME?!!_

"Please, Rouge . . . I . . . I did it because I didn't want you to get hurt . . ."

_WELL YOU HURT ME, KNUCKLES!!!_

_YOU FUCKING HURT ME!!_

Clang. 

Clang. Clang.

_What?_

_What's happening?_

"It's happening again, Rouge."

Clang. 

Clang clang clang.

_Metal . . . _

"I'm sorry we can't say goodbye under better circumstances."

"After the missions ends, so does my life. Self-destruct. Robotnik promised it to me."

"I . . . I made sure that whatever he does with me, that you aren't hurt. I don't care about anyone else as long as you're okay."

"This is the best I can do."

"This is the best either of us could ever hope for."

"This is my final gift to you."

"I'm dead. I'm dead, Rouge. Always remember that . . ."

_Knuckles?___

ClangClangClangClangClangClangClangClangClang

_KNUCKLES!!!!!!!!!!_

_You say you didn't want to hurt us, and look that what you're doing! You're hurting us ALL! ME MOST OF ALL!!_

Clang.

"I-"

_What you did was a coward's way out._

_What you did . . . It did more damage than ANYthing you could have ever done on accident._

_Life without you alone hurts more than any insult or blow._

_Gift?__ You call all of THIS a gift?_

_I'd rather have you kill me. _

_I'd rather have Robotnik kill me. _

_Knuckles . . . You abandon_ed me.

You abandoned me.

And I love you. 

And I love you more than anything. 

But . . . I hate you too. 

When I aim, squeeze, and fire, the release is . . . so . . . overwhelming.

.

**To be continued**.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	28. Goodbye

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**28. Goodbye.**

[TAILS, David Macintyre]

Some kind of wave of energy sweeps through my body.

I don't know if it's Amy channeling it through me, if I'm sucking the life force out of everyone here right now, or what, but suddenly I just can.

I grit my teeth, grunt hard and lift the bike. It comes off the ground.

Almost…

There.

It heave it forward. It rolls over onto the other side of my legs. I feel the weight release, the pain now fills my foot with the pressure gone. But I can move again.

"It's gonna be fine, Amy."

I get up.

That… that THING, Knuckles, is about to attack Rouge.

Uhhnn….

I look around for… perfect.

I limp heavily forward.

"Ana's going to grow up and be beautiful, Amy, you wait."

I lurch as quickly as I can toward the fire hose mounted near the elevator room. Knuckles is going to make a move-I can see it coming.

I grab the hose and aim forward at Knuckles. I slide to the ground and turn the little knob.

"Say ah."

The hose engulfs Brass in water. I aim at every part of his body, getting into the cracks and reaching into the deeper parts of his workings. Hundreds of sparks start to fly from his dented, opened frame. 

He starts trying to talk. I spray his mouth.

The pressure is pushing him, further, scraping his feet towards the barrier at the end of the parking lot. 

I walk forward and pin him against the wall.

He flails, then stops struggling altogether.

Rouge drops her gun. I turn off the hose.

I've seen way too many movies to think this is over now. He'll still work, or wake up, or have superpowers now or something just as stupid.

I walk over to the bot and hoist one of his legs. His dead eyes stare back at me with an ominous feel.

Rouge appears to help and lifts his other half. We manage to turn him over backwards and kind of roll him off of the barrier, sending him falling to the ground below.

He hits the pavement with a very satisfying crunch.

Suddenly this new air comes over Rouge. I look at her. I can't tell what it is. I don't care. 

Okay, fine, I do… what is it…?

She unfolds her long unused wings and jumps down after him.

Ah. I see what it is.

Old love.

_________________________

[AMY, Sean Catlett]

The hose drips itself empty and drops to the floor, the metal ring around the tip clanging throughout the confines of the parking garage. Metal parts everywhere, impossible to tell what it belonged to. Water drips everywhere. Blood drips everywhere. Tears and shit and piss and vomit and human emotion, anything you can think of, it drips everywhere. 

Me and Tails, beaten and bruised, broken and dead, we don't move. There's nothing left to notice so we just don't do anything. We're the only ones left. The van is gone, hightailing it. Rouge, she left awhile ago, and I couldn't tell whether or not I should go with her. I don't know if everything is okay again. 

And Sonic . . . I don't really care. I'm just glad he left. I'm glad that I don't have to know how or when or why. It's comforting. One less thing to worry about. 

Knuckles . . . 

Knuckles . . . 

"Amy?"

"What?"

"Let's go."

"Good idea."

And we carry each other down flights of floors, past lines of cars. We support each other, arms intertwined. I can feel his hot breath on my neck. He can probably feel my heart beat through my broken arm. These, these are reassurances that we're both alive. And kicking. 

Should we be grateful?

"Well. That was fun."

"Yeah . . . is this how you get most girls to fall for you?"

"Your mom seems to like it." I hug him tighter, causing him to wince, but he keeps quiet. 

It's sunset when we exit the building, the sky a deep amber. It's still slightly overcast but the horizon is clear, the last rays of sunlight cutting through the clouds. I can see the docks straight ahead and there's no one on the water. 

"Hey. Look." Tails points down the street. 

Rouge holds a giant metal infant in her arms, curled up in a fetal position. They both look like they're crying. Another part of him falls off, next to Rouge's gun. Under her caressing fingers is a giant patch of red flesh. 

And then she's pulling the metal parts off of him, searching for more flesh, more humanity, searching . . . 

I imagine Rouge looking at me and smiling, holding Knuckles' hand. They're waving at us. They're wishing us the best of luck. They're wishing us a happy ending, like the one that they have.

"Come on."

We have to go. 

Goodbye, Rouge.

Goodbye, Knuckles. 

We'll be seeing you. 

"Should we get to a hospital, maybe?"

"Maybe. It usually works itself out, though. Stranger things have happened."

"Hey Amy?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think that this is, I dunno, too cliché?"

"Yes . . . but I like it."

"Hmm. I guess nothing is ever perfect."

"I'd settle for almost."

"Mmm."

"How about you? What do you think about all of this?"

"Me? I think that it's a cop-out. But, we're still alive."

"Yes. Yes we are."

"How trite."

"Hey, you're putting a damper on the festivities. Just shut up and enjoy the moment, will ya?"

"Sorry. You're probably right. I'm being stupid."

"Aw hey. Poor Tails. We all feel SO bad for him. Well, look, if it'll cheer you up, I can always start calling you Dad."

"Really? Does this mean I get nookie too?"

"Oh, sure, of course. Just not from me."

"Tease."

.

**To be concluded**.  That's right, one more chapter.  ONE MORE!!!  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.


	29. Sonic boom

.

**THE DAY AFTER**

**29. Sonic boom.**

[SONIC, Stephen Zacharus]

Kyle, being the worldly fellow that he is, referred me to a splendid underground weapons factory just outside of Station Square.  Well, fancy that.  Turns out that it *does* pay off to have friends in low places.

After stealing a stray pickup truck and loading it with as much explosive shit as I could get my hands on, I drive to a small, abandoned warehouse and unload the artillery: guns, bullets, grenades, shit like that.

Oh, and a fuckload of C4.  Can't forget *that*, can we?  I can't figure out how to strap it to myself, so I just use duct tape.  What the hell.  It's not like I'll ever have to take it off.  Suicide bombings in industrial complexes are *so* today!

On top of the C4, I strap on some ammo and a more than a few grenades.  I test my two handguns on the rusting garage door at the back of the warehouse, followed by my machine gun.  Hot damn.  This goes beyond "trigger-happy."  

This is so fuckin' *cool*.  

Everything feels so weird… like it's all a dream or something.  I just can't seem to give a shit about anything.  Time means nothing to me anymore; before long, I'm armed and ready and standing at the gate to Eggman's robotics compound.  He's sure as hell going to be sorry he ever fucked with *this* hedgehog.

I bust into the place--guns in both hands, knocking off every goddamn 'bot in my path.  I think I change clips once or twice, but I'm not really paying attention.  I just live for blowing shit up.

I've got my back pressed against the wall now, ducking from the onslaught of laserfire that's coming from the next room.  I toss in a few grenades.  Ka-fucking-blooie.  'Bot parts everywhere.  Before long, I blaze into the room with my machine gun, holding the trigger down and aiming at ANYTHING.

That is, until out of nowhere comes a laserblast that scorches my left shoulder, and another that grazes my ear.  I drop my gun.

Another shot almost hits me in the face.  I fall.  Hard.

The next thing I know, there are hundreds of cold, tense robots surrounding me--scanners on *me*, guns pointed at *me*.  

And suddenly, I'm… laughing.  

Laughing.

What the fuck?!

I can't help myself.  I can't stop.  Hell, I don't even know *why* I'm laughing.

But… this is just so goddamn FUNNY!

"Well, if it isn't Sonic the Hedgehog--the fastest sex fiend in prison.  It's been so long, hasn't it?  I was looking forward to chatting with you again.  However, I must confess that I was hoping our little get-together would be somewhat… quieter.  But no matter.  I still get the last laugh, don't I?  At least my two 'serial killers' were able to torment you while you were still locked away--a marvelous revenge scheme, if I do say so myself."

I see that fat fuck looking down at me, grinning like a used-car salesman.  I stop laughing for a bit and hold up my C4 detonator.  

Silence--save for Robotnik's slow, steady breathing.

I snicker.  "Nice new factory you got here.  I was hoping to give you a little house-warming party."

"You wouldn't."

"We'll see."

Eggman looks at me timidly, and back to his robots.  Back to me.  Back to his robots…

With a slight hand motion, he commands the 'bots to lower their weapons.

"Alright, Hedgehog.  Let's talk."

"I'm not in the mood to talk."

The mad doctor doesn't move a muscle.  I can't tell if he's afraid or not.

"You don't want to do this, Hedgehog," he tells me.  My, how cliché.  

"I think I can decide that on my own, asshole.  All I have to do is press this button and your entrails will be decorating the moon."

"Ah, of course," Robotnik says, smiling faintly.  "A true hero until the end, eh Sonic?  Trying to rid the world of my evil influence?  Trying to do humanity one last favor--a desperate scheme to better your irredeemable reputation?  But what do you *owe* humanity, Hedgehog?  They're the people who turned their backs on you after you made just one mistake.  They're the people who abandoned you when you needed them the most.  Why should you care what happens to *them*?"

I tighten my grip on the detonator.  "I'm not doing this for them.  I'm doing this for ME."

"How so?"

"This isn't me saving the world.  This is me exacting my fucking *revenge*.  You've made me who I am, Eggman.  Without you, I'd be a normal guy with normal problems in a normal life.  If it weren't for you…"  I pause, noticing the tears in my eyes for the first time.  I grit my teeth and ignore them.  "If it weren't for *you*, Eggman, I'd still have a place in this world."

"Would you?"  Robotnik is practically grinning from ear to ear at this point.  "If I did, indeed, make you who you are, Hedgehog, wouldn't I be credited for your *fame* as well?  If it weren't for me, the world would have turned its back on you long ago.  It's a damned shame how biased society can be towards those from whom they can benefit.  As soon as they lose confidence in their heroes, they begin to forget them.  You found that out first-hand, didn't you?"     

I clutch the detonator fiercely--trembling, glaring at Eggman.  He looks deep in thought.

"Alright, Hedgehog," he says at last.  "I won't bother to fight this.  Go ahead.  Press the button.  Send us both into oblivion.  It's apparent to me that you've only lost your will to live and have decided to take me down with you--nothing more."  He pauses eloquently, smiling.  "Ah, but what if there were a way to bring yourself *back* to the light?  Sounds awfully tantalizing, doesn't it?"

I'm in no mood for fucking games.  "Robotnik, what the hell are you trying to pull?"

"It's a two-for-none deal, Hedgehog: *both* of us live happily ever after."

I raise an eyebrow.  "I don't follow you."

Robotnik turns away--paces the room.  "As I see it, you have two choices at this point.  You can either press that button and blow us both to smithereens... or…"

He turns back to me, his expression suddenly serious.

"You could pay the world back for all its done for you.  You could join *me*, Hedgehog.  You can embrace immortality in a body of perfect, blessed machinery.  You can assist me in ridding the world of its disgusting petulance.  Spite is by far the most beautiful form of revenge, isn't it?  To be feared is to command power at its most absolute, and an entire planet would fear *you*.  What do you say?"

I stand up, holding out the detonator for all to see.  "No deal.  I don't look good in chrome."  

I'm so damn funny, aren't I?  

Robotnik just glares at me.  "Then that will be your final mistake, Hedgehog."  He waves his hand, and the robots surrounding me raise their guns once again.  "They will fire on my command.  Let's see just how fast those reflexes of yours really are."

I stare into the fat man's eyes.

"Fuck you, Robotnik.  You lose.  I win."

I'm only slightly aware of the spray of laserfire that passes through my body... but that doesn't matter anymore.  Nothing matters anymore.  I've already pressed the detonation button.

And suddenly--boom.  White plumes of fire swallow me whole, swallow the room, swallow *everything*.  

I don't even have time to scream, and yet… somehow this seems like the perfect ending.

.

**END**

.


End file.
